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B'M-M. 


RAMBLES  ON  THE  RIVIERA 


WORKS  OF 

FRANCIS  MILTOUN 

The  following,   each    i   vol.,   library   i2mo,   cloth, 
gilt  top,  profusely  illustrated.    $230 

Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

Rambles   in   Normandy 

Rambles  in   Brittany 

The   Cathedrals  and  Churches  of  the  Rhine 

The   Cathedrals  of  Northern   France 

The    Cathedrals  of  Southern   France 

The     Cathedrals    Of   Italy  {In  preparation) 


The   following,   i    vol.,   square    octavo,  cloth,  gilt 
top,  profusely  illustrated.    $300 

Castles    and    Chateaux    of    Old     Touraine 
and  the   Loire   Country 

L.     C.    PAGE    csf    COMPANY 

New  England  Building,  Boston,  Mass. 


Rambles 

on    the 

RIVIERA 

Being  some  account  of  journeys  made  en  automobile 

AND    THINGS     SEEN    IN     THE     FAIR     LAND    OF     PROVENCE 

By      Francis      Miltoun 

Author  of  "  Rambles  in  Normandy,"  "  Rambles  in  Brittany," 
"  Castles  and  Chateaux  of  Old  Touraine,"  etc. 

With   Many   Illustrations 
Reproduced  from  paintings  made  on  the  spot 

By     Blanche     McManus 


Boston 

L.     C.     PAGE     &     COMPANY 

1906 


Copyright,  igob 
By  L.  C.  Page  &  Company 

(incorporated) 


All  rights  reserved 


First  Impression,  July,  1906 


COLONIAL    PRESS 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Simonds  6*  Co. 

Boston,  V.  S.  A  . 


APOLOGIA 


This  book  makes  no  pretence  at  being  a  work 
of  historical  or  archaeological  importance;  nor 
yet  is  it  a  conventional  book  of  travel  or  a 
glorified  guide-book.  It  is  merely  a  record  of 
things  seen  and  heard,  with  some  personal  ob- 
servations on  the  picturesque,  romantic,  and 
topographical  aspects  of  one  of  the  most  varied 
and  beautiful  touring-grounds  in  all  the  world, 
and  is  the  result  of  many  pleasant  wanderings 
of  the  author  and  artist,  chiefly  by  highway 
and  byway,  in  and  out  of  the  beaten  track, 
in  preference  to  travel  by  rail. 

The  French  Kiviera  proper  is  that  region 
bordering  upon  the  Mediterranean  west  of  the 
Italian  frontier  and  east  of  Toulon.  Nowa- 
days, however,  many  a  traveller  adds  to  the 
delights  of  a  Mediterranean  winter  by  breaking 
his  journey  at  one  or  all  of  those  cities  of  cele- 
brated art,  Nimes,  Aries,  and  Avignon;  or,  if 
he  does  not,  he  most  assuredly  should  do  so, 
and  know  something  of  the  glories  of  the  past 


vi  Apologia 


civilization  of  the  region  which  has  a  far  more 
aesthetic  reason  for  being  than  the  florid  Casino 
of  Monte  Carlo  or  the  latest  palatial  hotel 
along  the  coast. 

For  this  reason,  and  because  the  main  gate- 
way from  the  north  leads  directly  past  their 
doors,  that  wonderful  group  of  Provengal  cities 
and  towns,  beginning  with  Aries  and  ending 
with  Aix-en-Provence,  have  been  included  in 
this  book,  although  they  are  in  no  sense  "  re- 
sorts," and  are  not  even  popular  "  tourist 
points,"  except  with  the  French  themselves. 

Particularly  are  the  byways  of  Old  Provence 
unknown  to  the  average  English  and  American 
traveller;  the  wonderful  Pays  d 'Aries,  with  St. 
Kemy  and  Les  Baux ;  the  Crau ;  that  fascinat- 
ing region  around  the  fitang  de  Berre;  the 
coast  between  Marseilles  and  Toulon  (and  even 
Marseilles  itself) ;  the  Estaque ;  Les  Maures ; 
and  the  Esterel ;  and  yet  none  of  them  are  far 
from  the  beaten  track  of  Riviera  travel. 

Of  the  region  of  forests  and  mountains  that 
forms  the  background  of  the  Eiviera  resorts 
themselves  almost  the  same  thing  can  be  said. 
The  railway  and  the  automobile  have  made 
it  all  very  accessible,  but  ninety  per  cent.,  doubt- 
less, of  the  travellers  who  annually  hie  them- 
selves in  increasing  numbers  to  Cannes,  Nice, 


Apologia  vii 


Monte  Carlo,  and  Menton  know  nothing  of  that 
wonderful  mountain  country  lying  but  a  few 
miles  back  from  the  sea. 

The  town-tired  traveller,  for  pleasure  or  edi- 
fication, could  not  do  better  than  devote  a  part 
of  the  time  that  he  usually  gives  to  the  resorts 
of  convention  to  the  exploring  of  any  one  of  a 
half-dozen  of  these  delightful  petits  pays:  Avi- 
gnon and  Vaucluse,  with  memories  of  Petrarch 
and  his  Laura ;  the  pebbly  Crau,  south  of  Aries ; 
and  the  fringe  of  delightful  little  towns  sur- 
rounding the  Eltang  de  Berre. 

Any  or  all  of  these  will  furnish  the  genuine 
traveller  with  emotions  and  sensations  far  more 
pleasurable  than  those  to  be  had  at  the  most 
blase  resort  that  ever  opened  a  golf-links  or 
set  up  a  roulette-wheel,  which,  to  many,  are 
the  chief  attractions  (and  memories)  of  that 
strip  of  Mediterranean  coast-line  known  as  the 
Riviera. 

The  scheme  of  this  book  had  long  been 
thought  out,  and  much  material  collected  at  odd 
visits,  but  at  last  it  could  be  delayed  no  longer, 
and  the  whole  was  threaded  together  by  hun- 
dreds of  miles  of  travel,  en  automobile,  through 
the  highways  and  byways  of  the  region. 

The  pictures  were  made  "  on  the  spot,"  and, 
as  living,  tangible  records  of  things  seen,  have, 


viii  Apologia 


perhaps,  a  quality  of  appealing  interest  that  is 
not  possessed  by  the  average  illustration. 

The  result  is  here  presented  for  the  value 
it  may  have  for  the  traveller  or  the  stay-at- 
home,  it  being  always  understood  that  no  great 
thing  was  attempted  and  little  or  nothing  pre- 
sented that  another  might  not  see  or  learn  for 
himself. 

The  reason  for  being,  then,  of  this  book  is 
that  it  does  give  a  little  different  view-point 
of  the  attractions  of  Maritime  Provence  and 
the  Mediterranean  Riviera  from  that  to  be 
hitherto  gleaned  in  any  single  volume  on  the 
subject,  and  as  such  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  it 
serves  its  purpose  sufficiently  well  to  merit  con- 
sideration. F.  M. 

Chateauneuf-les-Mabtigue8,  January,  1906. 


5r 


stjA>      'J' 


C0MFEAF& 


♦ — 

PAGE 

Apologia v 

PART   I. 

CHAPTER 

I.     A  Plea  for  Provence 3 

II.     The  Pays  d'Arles 24 

III.  St.  Remy  de  Provence 42 

IV.  The  Crau  and  the  Camargue      ...  56 
V.     Martigues  :  The  Provenqal  Venice     .         .  70 

VI.     The  FItang  de  Berre 87 

VII.     A    Seascape  :    From    the    Rhone    to    Mar- 
seilles       .......  107 

VIII.     Marseilles  —  Cosmopolis        ....  122 

IX.     A  Ramble  with  Dumas  and  Monte  Cristo  144 

X.     Aix- en  -Provence  and  About  There          .  156 

PART   II. 

I.     Marseilles  to  Toulon 177 

II.     Over  Cap  SiciiS 202 

III.     The  Real  Riviera 226 

ix 


X 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

IV.  Hyeres  and  Its  Neighbourhood  . 

V.  St.  Tropez  and  Its  "  Golfe  " 

VI.  Frejus  and  the  Corniche  d'Or    . 

VII.  La  Napoule  and  Cannes 

VIII.  Antip.es  and  the  Golfe  Jouan     . 

IX.  Grasse  and  Its  Environs 

X.  Nice  and  Cimiez     .... 

XL  Villefranche  and  the  Fortifications 

XII.  Eze  and  La  Turbie 

XIII.  Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo 

XIV.  Menton  and  the  Frontier    . 
Appendices        ..... 
Index        ,,,,.. 


PAGE 

239 
254 
271 
292 
305 
319 
330 
348 
359 
370 
398 
409 
431 


PAGE 

On  the  Riviera Frontispiece 

"It  was  September,  and  it  was  Provence  "    facing  8 

A  Young  Arlesienne          ....        facing  36 

Abbey  of  Montmajour  and  Vineyard    ...  39 

Baker's  Tally -sticks 48 

St.  Remy facing  48 

A  Panetiere        .         .......  52 

The  Bulls  of  the  Camargue 59 

Les  Saintes  Maries facing  60 

Eglise  de  la  Madeleine,  Martigues      .        facing  70 

House  of  M.  Ziem,  Martigues          .         .        facing  74 

Martigues 77 

Loup 86 

Jstres facing  92 

The  Kilometre  West  of  Salon       ....  102 

Bouches-  du-  Rhone  to  Marseilles  (Map)     .        .  108 

Fos-sur-Mer HI 

Chateauneuf facing  112 

Roadside  Chapel,  St.  Pierre 114 

Flower  Market,  Cours  St.  Louis   .        .        .        .129 

xi 


Xll 


List  of  Illustrations 


A  Cabanon  .... 
Marseilles  in  1640  (Map) 
Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde  and  the 

Marseilles  .... 
Environs  of  Marseilles  (Map) 
Chateau  d'If      .... 

Les  Pennes  

Roquevaire 

Convent  Garden,  St.  Zacharie 
Marseilles  to  Toulon  (Map)  . 

Cassis 

La  Ciotat  and  the  Bec  de  l'Aigle 

St.  Nazaire  -  du  -  Var 

Fishing  -  boats  at  Tamaris 

In  Toulon's  Old  Port 

Toulon  to  Fre".ius  (Map)  . 

In  Les  Maures    .... 

Comparative  Theometric  Scale 

The  Terrace,  Monte  Carlo     . 

The  Peninsula  of  Giens  . 

Ruined  Chapel  near  St.  Tropez 

Fre'jus  to  Nice  (Map) 

St.  Raphael         .... 

Maison  Close,  St.  Raphael 

On  the  Corniche  d'Or 

Offshore  from  Agay 

On  the  Golfe  de  la  Napoule 

Cannes  and  Its  Environs  (Map) 

Jouan- les -Pins 

Antibes  and  Its  Environs  (Map) 

St.  Honorat 

Flower  Market,  Grasse   . 

Gourdon       .... 

Nice  to  Vintimille  (Map) 

A  Nigois       .... 


PAGE 

facing  134 

.  141 
Harbour  of 

facing  148 

.  150 

facing  150 

facing  160 

.  166 

facing  170 

.  176 

facing  180 

.  185 

facing  198 

facing  208 

facing  212 

.  220 

facing  222 

.  230 

facing  234 

facing  242 

facing  258 

.  277 

facing  278 

.  280 

facing  284 

facing  286 

facing  292 

.  301 

.  306 

.  313 

.  317 

facing  322 

.  328 

.  331 

.  334 


List  of  Illustrations  xiii 

PAGE 

Nice facing  338 

Olive  Pickers  in  the  Vak        .        .        .        facing  344 

Environs  of  Nice  (Map) 345 

Cap  Ferrat facing  348 

Villa  of  Leopold,  King  of  Belgium      .        .        .  356 

Eze 360 

Augustan  Trophy,  La  Turbie          ....  364 

A  Roquebrune  Doorway    ....        facing  368 
Monte  Carlo  and  Monaco  (Map)    .         .        .        .371 

The  Game 383 

Overlooking  Monaco  and  Monte  Carlo       facing  390 

The  Ravine  of  Saint  Devote,  Monte  Carlo,  facing  396 

Pont  Saint  Louis 406 

The  Provinces  of  France  (Map)     ....  409 

The  Ancient  Provinces  of  France  (Map)     .        .  411 
Ensemble    Carte   de    Touring    Club   de   France 

(Map) 420 

The  "Taride"  Maps 421 

Three  Riviera  Itineraries  (Maps)         .         .         .  423 

Comparative  Metric  Scale  (Diagram)  .         .         .  427 

The  Log  of  an  Automobile     .....  429 


PART  I. 

OLD  PROVENCE 


RAMBLES  ON 
THE   RIVIERA 


CHAPTER   I. 


A  PLEA   FOE   PROVENCE 


A  Valence,  le  Midi  commence!  "  is  a  say- 
ing of  the  French,  though  this  Rhone-side  city, 
the  Julia-Valentia  of  Roman  times,  is  in  full 
view  of  the  snow-clad  Alps.  It  is  true,  how- 
ever, that  as  one  descends  the  valley  of  the 
torrential  Rhone,  from  Lyons  southward,  he 
comes  suddenly  upon  a  brilliancy  of  sunshine 
and  warmth  of  atmosphere,  to  say  nothing  of 
many  differences  in  manners  and  customs, 
which  are  reminiscent  only  of  the  southland 
itself.  Indeed  this  is  even  more  true  of  Orange, 
but  a  couple  of  scores  of  miles  below,  whose 
awning-hung  streets,  and  open-air  workshops 
are  as  brilliant  and  Italian  in  motive  as  Tus- 

3 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


cany  itself.  Here  at  Orange  one  has  before 
him  the  most  wonderful  old  Eoman  arch  out- 
side of  Italy,  and  an  amphitheatre  so  great 
and  stupendous  in  every  way,  and  so  perfectly 
preserved,  that  he  may  well  wonder  if  he 
has  not  crossed  some  indefinite  frontier  and 
plunged  into  the  midst  of  some  strange  land 
he  knew  not  of. 

The  history  of  Provence  covers  so  great  a 
period  of  time  that  no  one  as  yet  has  attempted 
to  put  it  all  into  one  volume,  hence  the  lover 
of  wide  reading,  with  Provence  for  a  subject, 
will  be  able  to  give  his  hobby  full  play. 

The  old  Eoman  Provincia,  and  later  the  medi- 
aeval Provence,  were  prominent  in  affairs  of 
both  Church  and  State,  and  many  of  the  mo- 
mentous incidents  which  resulted  in  the  found- 
ing and  aggrandizing  of  the  French  nation  had 
their  inception  and  earliest  growth  here.  There 
may  be  some  doubts  as  to  the  exact  location 
of  the  Fosses  Mariennes  of  the  Romans,  but 
there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  it  was 
from  Avignon  that  there  went  out  broadcast, 
through  France  and  the  Christian  world  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  an  influence  which  first  put 
France  at  the  head  of  the  civilizing  influences 
of  Christendom. 

The  Avignon  popes  planned  a  vast  cosmo- 


A  Plea  for  Provence 


politan  monarchy,  of  which  France  should  be 
the  head,  and  Avignon  the  new  Rome. 

The  Roman  emperors  exercised  their  influ- 
ence throughout  all  this  region  long  before, 
and  they  left  enduring  monuments  wherever 
they  had  a  foothold.  At  Orange,  St.  Reiny, 
Avignon,  Aries,  and  Nimes  there  were  monu- 
mental arches,  theatres,  and  arenas,  quite  the 
equal  of  those  of  Rome  itself,  not  in  splendour 
alone,  but  in  respect  as  well  to  the  important 
functions  which  they  performed. 

The  later  middle  ages  somewhat  dimmed  the 
ancient  glories  of  the  Romanesque  school  of 
monumental  architecture  —  though  it  was  by  no 
means  pure,  as  the  wonderfully  preserved  and 
dainty  Greek  structures  at  Nimes  and  Vienne 
plainly  show  —  and  the  roofs  of  theatres  and 
arenas  fell  in  and  walls  crumbled  through  the 
stress  of  time  and  weather. 

In  spite  of  all  the  decay  that  has  set  in,  and 
which  still  goes  on,  a  short  journey  across  Pro- 
vence wonderfully  recalls  other  days.  The 
traveller  who  visits  Orange,  and  goes  down  the 
valley  of  the  Rhone,  by  Avignon,  St.  Remy, 
Aries,  Nimes,  Aix,  and  Marseilles,  will  be  an  ill- 
informed  person  indeed  if  he  cannot  construct 
history  for  himself  anew  when  once  he  is  in 
the  midst  of  this  multiplicity  of  ancient  shrines. 


6  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

Day  by  day  things  are  changing,  and  even 
old  Provence  is  fast  coming  under  the  influ- 
ences of  electric  railroads  and  twentieth-cen- 
tury ideas  of  progress  which  bid  fair  to  change 
even  the  face  of  nature:  Marseilles  is  to  have 
a  direct  communication  with  the  Rhone  and  the 
markets  of  the  north  by  means  of  a  canal  cut 
through  the  mountains  of  the  Estaque,  and  a 
great  port  is  to  be  made  of  the  filtang  de  Berre 
(perhaps),  and  trees  are  to  be  planted  on  the 
bare  hills  which  encircle  the  Crau,  with  the  idea 
of  reclaiming  the  pebbly,  sandy  plain. 

No  doubt  the  deforestation  of  the  hillsides 
has  had  something  to  do,  in  ages  past,  with  the 
bareness  of  the  lower  river-bottom  of  the 
Rhone  which  now  separates  Aries  from  the  sea. 
Almost  its  whole  course  below  Aries  is  through 
a  treeless,  barren  plain;  but,  certainly,  there 
is  no  reflection  of  its  unproductiveness  in  the 
lives  of  the  inhabitants.  There  is  no  evidence 
in  Aries  or  Nimes,  even  to-day  —  when  we 
know  their  splendour  has  considerably  faded  — 
of  a  poverty  or  dulness  due  to  the  bareness 
of  the  neighbouring  country. 

Irrigation  will  accomplish  much  in  making 
a  wilderness  blossom  like  the  rose,  and  when 
the  time  and  necessity  for  it  really  comes  there 
is  no  doubt  but  that  the  paternal  French  gov- 


A  Plea  for  Provence 


eminent  will  take  matters  into  its  own  hands 
and  turn  the  Crau  and  the  Camargue  into  some- 
thing more  than  a  grazing-ground  for  live- 
stock. Even  now  one  need  not  feel  that  there 
is  any  "  appalling  cloud  of  decadence  "  hang- 
ing over  old  Provence  as  some  travellers  have 
claimed. 

The  very  best  proof  one  could  wish,  that 
Provence  is  not  a  poor  impoverished  land,  is 
that  the  best  of  everything  is  grown  right  in 
her  own  boundaries,  —  the  olive,  the  vine,  the 
apricot,  the  peach,  and  vegetables  of  the  finest 
quality.  The  mutton  and  beef  of  the  Crau,  the 
Camargue,  and  the  hillsides  of  the  coast  ranges 
are  most  excellent,  and  the  fish  supply  of  the 
Mediterranean  is  varied  and  abundant;  loup, 
turbot,  thon,  mackerel,  sardines,  and  even  sole, 
—  which  is  supposed  to  be  the  exclusive  spe- 
cialty of  England  and  Normandy,  —  with  lan- 
gouste  and  coquillages  at  all  times.  No  cook 
will  quarrel  with  the  supply  of  his  market,  if 
he  lives  anywhere  south  of  Lyons;  and  Pro- 
vence, of  all  the  ancient  gouvernements  of 
France,  is  the  land  above  all  others  where  all 
are  good  cooks,  —  a  statement  which  is  not 
original  with  the  author  of  this  book,  but  which 
has  come  down  since  the  days  of  the  old  regime, 


8  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

when  Provence  was  recognized  as  "  la  patrie 
des  grands  maitres  de  cuisine." 

"  It  was  September,  and  it  was  Provence, " 
are  the  opening  words  of  Daudet's  "  Port  Ta- 
rascon."  What  more  significant  words  could 
be  uttered  to  awaken  the  memories  of  that  fair 
land  in  the  minds  of  any  who  had  previously 
threaded  its  highways  and  byways  ?  From  the 
days  of  Petrarch  writers  of  many  schools  have 
sung  its  praises,  and  the  literature  of  the  sub- 
ject is  vast  and  varied,  from  that  of  the  old 
geographers  to  the  last  lays  of  Mistral,  the 
present  deity  of  Provencal  letters. 

The  Loire  divides  France  on  a  line  running 
from  the  southeast  to  the  middle  of  the  west 
coast,  parting  the  territory  into  two  great  divi- 
sions, which  in  the  middle  ages  had  a  separate 
form  of  legislation,  of  speech,  and  of  litera- 
ture. The  language  south  of  the  Loire  was 
known  as  the  langue  d'oc  (an  expression 
which  gave  its  name  to  a  province),  so  called 
from  the  fact,  say  some  etymologists  and  phil- 
ologists, that  the  expression  of  affirmation  in 
the  romance  language  of  the  south  was  "  oc  ' 
or  "  hoc."  Dialects  were  common  enough 
throughout  this  region,  as  elsewhere  in  France ; 
but  there  was  a  certain  grammatical  resem- 
blance between   them  all  which  distinguished 


A  Plea  for  Provence  9 

them  from  the  speech  of  the  Bretons  and  Nor- 
mans in  the  north.  This  southern  language  was 
principally  distinguished  from  northern  French 
by  the  existence  of  many  Latin  roots,  which  in 
the  north  had  been  eliminated.  Foreign  influ- 
ences, curiously  enough,  had  not  crept  in  in  the 
south,  and,  like  the  Spanish  and  the  Italian 
speech,  that  of  Languedoc  (and  Provence)  was 
of  a  dulcet  mildness  which  in  its  survival  to- 
day, in  the  chief  Provencal  districts,  is  to  be 
remarked  by  all. 

Northward  of  the  Loire  the  langue  d'oeil  was 
spoken,  and  this  language  in  its  ultimate  sur- 
vival, with  the  interpolation  of  much  that  was 
Germanic,  came  to  be  the  French  that  is  known 
to-day. 

The  Provencal  tongue,  even  the  more  or  less 
corrupt  patois  of  to-day  which  Mistral  and  the 
other  Felibres  are  trying  to  purify,  is  not  so 
bad  after  all,  nor  so  bizarre  as  one  might  think. 
It  does  not  resemble  French  much  more  than 
it  does  Italian,  but  it  is  astonishingly  reminis- 
cent of  many  tongues,  as  the  following  quat- 
rain familiar  to  us  all  will  show: 

"  Trento  jour  en  Setembre, 
Abrieu  Jun,  e  Nouvembre, 
De  vint-e-une  n'i'a  qu'un 
Lis  autre  n'an  trento  un.  " 


10  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

An  Esperantist  should  find  this  easy. 

The  literary  world  in  general  has  always 
been  interested  in  the  Felibres  of  the  land  of 
"  la  verte  olive,  la  mure  vermeille,  la  grappe 
de  vie,  croissant  ensemble  sous  un  del  d'azur," 
and  they  recognize  the  "  litterature  proven- 
gale  "  as  something  far  more  worthy  of  being 
kept  alive  than  that  of  the  Emerald  Isle,  which 
is  mostly  a  fad  of  a  few  pedants  so  dead  to  all 
progress  that  they  even  live  their  lives  in  the 
past. 

This  is  by  no  means  the  case  with  the  Pro- 
vengal  school.  The  life  of  the  Felibres  and 
their  followers  is  one  of  a  supreme  gaiety; 
the  life  of  a  veritable  pays  de  la  cigale,  the 
symbol  of  a  sentiment  always  identified  with 
Provence. 

Of  the  original  founders  of  the  Felibres  three 
names  stand  out  as  the  most  prominent:  Mis- 
tral, who  had  taken  his  honours  at  the  bar, 
Roumanille,  a  bookseller  of  Avignon,  and 
Theodore  Aubanal.  For  the  love  of  their  pays 
and  its  ancient  tongue,  which  was  fast  falling 
into  a  mere  patois,  they  vowed  to  devote  them- 
selves to  the  perpetuation  of  it  and  the  reviv- 
ing of  its  literature. 

In  1859  "  Mireio,"  Mistral's  masterpiece, 
appeared,  and  was  everywhere  recognized  as 


A  Plea  for  Provence  11 

the  chief  literary  novelty  of  the  age.  Mistral 
went  to  Paris  and  received  the  plaudits  of  the 
literary  and  artistic  world  of  the  capital.  He 
and  his  works  have  since  come  to  be  recognized 
as  "  le  miroir  de  la  Provence." 

The  origin  of  the  word  "  felibre  "  is  most 
obscure.  Mistral  first  met  with  it  in  an  ancient 
Provengal  prayer,  the  "  Oration  of  St.  An- 
sehn,"  "  erne  li  set  felibre  de  la  lei." 

Philologists  have  discussed  the  origin  and 
evolution  of  the  word,  and  here  the  mystic 
seven  of  the  Felibres  again  comes  to  the  fore, 
as  there  are  seven  explanations,  all  of  them 
acceptable  and  plausible,  although  the  majority 
of  authorities  are  in  favour  of  the  Greek  word 
philabros  —  "  he  who  loves  the  beautiful." 

Of  course  the  movement  is  caused  by  the 
local  pride  of  the  Provengaux,  and  it  can  hardly 
be  expected  to  arouse  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
Bretons,  the  Normans,  or  the  native  sons  of  the 
Aube.  In  fact,  there  are  certain  detractors 
of  the  work  of  the  Felibres  who  profess  regrets 
that  the  French  tongue  should  be  thus  pol- 
luted. The  aspersion,  however,  has  no  effect 
on  the  true  Provengal,  for  to  him  his  native 
land  and  its  tongue  are  first  and  foremost. 

Truly  more  has  been  said  and  written  of 
Provence  that  is  of  interest  than  of  any  other 


12  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

land,  from  the  days  of  Petrarch  to  those  of 
Mistral,  in  whose  "  Recollections,"  recently- 
published  (1906),  there  is  more  of  the  fact  and 
romance  of  history  of  the  old  province  set 
forth  than  in  many  other  writers  combined. 

Daudet  was  expressive  when  he  said,  in  the 
opening  lines  of  ' '  Tartarin, "  "  It  was  Septem- 
ber, and  it  was  Provence;  "  Thiers  was  definite 
when  he  said,  "  At  Valence  the  south  com- 
mences; "  and  Felix  Gras,  and  even  Dumas, 
were  eloquent  in  their  praises  of  this  fair  land 
and  its  people. 

Then  there  was  an  unknown  who  sang: 

"  The  vintage  sun  was  shining 
On  the  southern  fields  of  France," 

and  who  struck  the  note  strong  and  true;  but 
again  and  again  we  turn  to  Mistral,  whose  epic, 
' '  Mireio, ' '  indeed  forms  a  mirror  of  Provence. 
Madame  de  Sevigne  was  wrong  when  she 
said:  "  I  prefer  the  gamesomeness  of  the 
Bretons  to  the  perfumed  idleness  of  the  Pro- 
vengaux;  "  at  least  she  was  wrong  in  her  esti- 
mate of  the  Provengaux,  for  her  interests  and 
her  loves  were  ever  in  the  north,  at  Chateau 
Grignan  and  elsewhere,  in  spite  of  her  familiar- 
ity with  Provence.  She  has  some  hard  things 
to  say  also  of  the  "  mistral,"  the  name  given  to 


A  Plea  for  Provence  13 

that  dread  north  wind  of  the  Rhone  valley,  one 
of  the  three  plagues  of  Provence ;  but  again  she 
exaggerates. 

The  ' '  terrible  mistral  ' '  is  not  always  so  ter- 
rible as  it  has  been  pictured.  It  does  not  al- 
ways blow,  nor,  when  it  does  come,  does  it  blow 
for  a  long  period,  not  even  for  the  proverbial 
three,  six,  or  nine  days ;  but  it  is,  nevertheless, 
pretty  general  along  the  whole  south  coast 
of  France.  It  is  the  complete  reverse  of  the 
sirocco  of  the  African  coast,  the  wind  which 
blows  hot  from  the  African  desert  and  makes 
the  coast  cities  of  Oran,  Alger,  and  Constantine, 
and  even  Biskra,  farther  inland,  the  delightful 
winter  resorts  which  they  are. 

In  summer  the  "  mistral,"  when  it  blows, 
makes  the  coast  towns  and  cities  of  the  mouth 
of  the  Rhone,  and  even  farther  to  the  east  and 
west,  cool  and  delightful  even  in  the  hottest 
summer  months,  and  it  always  has  a  great  puri- 
fying and  healthful  influence. 

Ordinarily  the  "  mistral  "  is  faithful  to  tra- 
dition, but  for  long  months  in  the  winter  of 
1905-06  it  only  appeared  at  Marseilles,  and  then 
only  to  disappear  again  immediately.  The  Pro- 
vencal used  to  pray  to  be  preserved  from 
tEoIus,  son  of  Jupiter,  but  this  particular  sea- 
son the  god  had  forsaken  all  Provence.    From 


14  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

the  31st  of  August  to  the  4th  of  September  it 
blew  with  all  its  wonted  vigour,  with  a  violence 
which  lifted  roof-tiles  and  blew  all  before  it, 
but  until  the  first  of  the  following  March  it 
made  only  fitful  attempts,  many  of  which  ex- 
pired before  they  were  born. 

There  were  occasions  when  it  rose  from  its 
torpor  and  ruffled  the  waves  of  the  blue  Med- 
iterranean into  the  white  horses  of  the  poets, 
but  it  immediately  retired  as  if  shorn  of  its 
former  strength. 

"  C'est  humiliant ,"  said  the  observer  at  the 
meteorological  bureau  at  Marseilles,  as  he  shut 
up  shop  and  went  out  for  his  aperitif. 

All  Provence  was  marvelling  at  the  strange 
anomaly,  and  really  seemed  to  regret  the  ab- 
sence of  the  "  mistral,"  though  they  always 
cursed  it  loudly  when  it  was  present  —  all  but 
the  fisherfolk  of  the  fitang  de  Berre  and  the 
old  men  who  sheltered  themselves  on  the  sunny 
side  of  a  wall  and  made  the  best  use  possible 
of  the  "  cheminee  du  Roi  Rene,"  as  the  old 
pipe-smokers  call  the  glorious  sun  of  the  south, 
which  never  seems  so  bright  and  never  gives 
out  so  much  warmth  as  when  the  "  mistral  " 
blows  its  hardest. 

A  Martigaux  or  a  Marseillais  would  rather 
have   the    "  mistral  "   than   the   dainp   humid 


A  Plea  for  Provence  15 

winds  from  the  east  or  northeast,  which,  curi- 
ously enough,  brought  fog  with  them  on  this 
abnormal  occasion.  The  cafe  gossips  predicted 
that  Marseilles,  their  beloved  Marseilles  with 
its  Cannebiere  and  its  Prado,  was  degenerating 
into  a  fog-bound  city  like  London,  Paris,  and 
Lyons.  At  Martigues  the  old  sailors,  those  who 
had  been  toilers  on  the  deep  sea  in  their  earlier 
years,  told  weird  tales  of  the  "  pea-soup  " 
fogs  of  London,  —  only  they  called  them 
purees. 

One  thing,  however,  all  were  certain.  The 
' '  mistral  ' '  was  sure  to  drive  all  this  moisture- 
laden  atmosphere  away.  In  the  words  of  the 
song  they  chanted,  "  On  n'sait  quand  y'r'vien- 
dra."  "  Va-t-il  prendre  enfinf  "  "  Je  ne  sais 
pas,"  and  so  the  fishermen  of  Martigues,  and 
elsewhere  on  the  Mediterranean  coast,  pulled 
their  boats  up  on  the  shore  and  huddled  around 
the  cafe  stoves  and  talked  of  the  mauvais  temps 
which  was  always  with  them.  What  was  the 
use  of  combating  against  the  elements?  The 
fish  would  not  rise  in  what  is  thought  else- 
where to  be  fishermen's  weather.  They  re- 
quired the  ' '  mistral  ' '  and  plenty  of  it. 

The  Provence  of  the  middle  ages  comprised 
a  considerably  more  extensive  territory  than 
that  which  made  one  of  the  thirty-three  general 


16  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

gouvemements  of  the  ancient  regime.  In  fact 
it  included  all  of  the  south-central  portion  of 
Languedoc,  with  the  exception  of  the  Comtat 
Venaissin  (Avignon,  Carpentras,  etc.),  and  the 
Comte  de  Nice. 

In  Roman  times  it  became  customary  to  refer 
to  the  region  simply  as  ' '  the  province, ' '  and  so, 
in  later  times,  it  became  known  as  "  Pro- 
vence," though  officially  and  politically  the 
Narbonnaise,  which  extended  from  the  Pyre- 
nees to  Lyons,  somewhat  hid  its  identity,  the 
name  Provence  applying  particularly  to  that 
region  lying  between  the  Rhone  and  the  Alps. 

The  Provence  of  to-day,  and  of  the  seven- 
teenth and  eighteenth  centuries,  is  a  wider  re- 
gion which  includes  the  mouth  of  the  Rhone, 
Marseilles,  and  the  Riviera.  It  was  that  por- 
tion of  France  which  first  led  the  Roman 
legions  northward,  and,  earlier  even,  gave  a 
resting-place  to  the  venturesome  Greeks  and 
Phoceans  who,  above  all,  sought  to  colonize 
wherever  there  was  a  possibility  of  building  up 
great  seaports.  The  chief  Phocean  colony  was 
Marseilles,  or  Massilia,  which  was  founded 
under  the  two  successive  immigrations  of  the 
years  600  and  542  b.  c. 

In  1150,  when  the  Carlovingian  empire  was 
dismembered,  there  was  formed  the  Comte  and 


A  Plea  for  Provence  17 


Marquisat  of  Provence,  with  capitals  at  Avi- 
gnon and  Aix,  the  small  remaining  portion  be- 
coming known  as  the  Comte  d 'Orange. 

Under  the  comtes  Provence  again  nourished, 
and  a  brilliant  civilization  was  born  in  the 
twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  which  gave  al- 
most a  new  literature  and  a  new  art  to  those 
glorious  gems  of  the  French  Crown.  The  school 
of  Romanesque  church-building  of  Provence,  of 
which  the  most  entrancing  examples  are  still  to 
be  seen  at  Aix,  Aries,  St.  Gilles,  and  Cavaillon, 
spread  throughout  Languedoc  and  Dauphine, 
and  gave  an  impetus  to  a  style  of  church-build- 
ing which  was  the  highest  form  of  artistic  ex- 
pression. 

It  was  at  this  time,  too,  that  Provencal  litera- 
ture took  on  that  expressive  form  which  set  the 
fashion  for  the  court  versifiers  of  the  day,  the 
troubadours  and  the  trouveres  of  which  the  old 
French  chronicles  are  so  full.  The  speech  of 
the  Provencal  troubadours  was  so  polished  and 
light  that  it  lent  itself  readily  to  verses  and 
dialogues  which,  for  their  motives,  mostly 
touched  on  love  and  marriage.  Avignon,  Aix, 
and  Les  Baux  were  very  ' '  courts  of  love, ' '  pre- 
sided over  —  said  a  chivalrous  French  writer 
—  by  ladies  of  renown,  who  elaborated  a  code 


18  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

of  gallantry  and  the  droits  de  la  femme  which 
were  certainly  in  advance  of  their  time. 

The  reign  of  Rene  II.  of  Sicily  and  Anjou, 
called  "  le  bon  Roi  Rene/'  brought  all  this  love 
of  letters  to  the  highest  conceivable  plane  and 
constituted  an  era  hitherto  unapproached,  —  as 
marked,  indeed,  and  as  brilliant,  as  the  Renais- 
sance itself. 

The  troubadours  and  the  "  courts  of  love  " 
have  gone  for  ever  from  Provence,  and  there 
is  only  the  carnival  celebrations  of  Nice  and 
Cannes  and  the  other  Riviera  cities  to  take 
their  place.  These  festivities  are  poor  enough 
apologies  for  the  splendid  pageants  which  for- 
merly held  forth  at  Marseilles  and  Aix,  where 
the  titled  dignitary  of  the  celebration  was 
known  as  the  "  Prince  d 'Amour,"  or  at  Au- 
bagne,  Toulon,  or  St.  Tropez,  where  he  was 
known  as  the  "  Capitaine  de  Ville." 

The  carnival  celebrations  of  to-day  are  all 
right  in  their  way,  perhaps,  but  their  spirit  is 
not  the  same.  What  have  flower-dressed  auto- 
mobiles and  hare  and  tortoise  gymkanas  got 
to  do  with  romance  anyway? 

The  pages  of  history  are  full  of  references  to 
the  Provence  of  the  middle  ages.  Louis  XI. 
annexed  the  province  to  the  Crown  in  1481,  but 
Aix  remained  the  capital,  and  this  city  was 


A  Plea  for  Provence  19 

given  a  parliament  of  its  own  by  Louis  XII. 
The  dignity  was  not  appreciated  by  the  inhab- 
itants, for  the  parliamentary  benches  were  filled 
with  the  nobility,  who,  as  was  the  custom  of  the 
time,  sought  to  oppress  their  inferiors.  As  a 
result  there  developed  a  local  saying  that  the 
three  plagues  of  Provence  were  its  parliament ; 
its  raging  river,  the  stony-bedded  Durance ;  and 
the  "  mistral,"  the  cold  north  wind  that  blows 
with  severe  regularity  for  three,  six,  or  nine 
days,  throughout  the  Rhone  valley. 

Charles  V.  invaded  Provence  in  1536,  and  the 
League  and  the  Fronde  were  disturbing  influ- 
ences here  as  elsewhere. 

The  Comte  d  'Orange  was  annexed  by  France, 
by  virtue  of  the  treaty  of  Utrecht,  in  1713,  and 
the  Comtat  Venaissin  was  acquired  from  the 
Italian  powers  in  1791. 

Toulon  played  a  great  part  in  the  later  his- 
tory of  Provence,  when  it  underwent  its  famous 
siege  by  the  troops  of  the  Convention  in  1793. 

Napoleon  set  foot  in  France,  for  his  final 
campaign,  on  the  shores  of  the  Golfe  Jouan, 
in  1815. 

History-making  then  slumbered  for  a  matter 
of  a  quarter  of  a  century.  Then,  in  1848, 
Menton  and  Eoquebrune  revolted  against  the 
Princes  of  Monaco  and  came  into  the  French 


20  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

fold.  It  was  as  late  as  1860,  however,  that  the 
Comte  de  Nice  was  annexed. 

This,  in  brief,  is  a  resume  of  some  of  the 
chief  events  since  the  middle  ages  which  have 
made  history  in  Provence. 

It  is  but  a  step  across  country  from  the 
Rhone  valley  to  Marseilles,  that  great  south- 
ern gateway  of  modern  France  through  which 
flows  a  ceaseless  tide  of  travel. 

Here,  in  the  extreme  south,  on  the  shores  of 
the  great  blue,  tideless  Mediterranean,  all  one 
has  previously  met  with  in  Provence  is  further 
magnified,  not  only  by  the  brilliant  cosmo- 
politanism of  Marseilles  itself,  but  by  the 
very  antiquity  of  its  origin.  East  and  west 
of  Marseilles  and  the  Bouches-du-Khone  is  a 
region,  French  to-day,  —  as  French  as  any  of 
those  old  provinces  of  mediaeval  times  which 
go  to  make  up  the  republican  solidarity  of 
modern  France,  —  but  which  in  former  times 
was  as  foreign  to  France  and  things  French  as 
is  modern  Spain  or  Italy. 

To  the  eastward,  toward  Italy,  was  the  an- 
cient independent  Comte  de  Nice,  and,  on  the 
west,  Catalonia  once  included  the  region  where 
are  to-day  the  French  cities  of  Perpignan, 
Elne  and  Agde. 

Of  all  the  delectable  regions  of  France,  none 


A  Plea  for  Provence  21 

is  of  more  diversified  interest  to  the  dweller 
in  northern  climes  than  "  La  Provence  Mari- 
time," that  portion  which  includes  what  the 
world  to-day  recognizes  as  the  Riviera.  Here 
may  be  found  the  whole  galaxy  of  charms 
which  the  present-day  seeker  after  health,  edi- 
fication, and  pleasure  demands  from  the  anti- 
quarian and  historical  interests  of  old  Pro- 
vence and  the  Roman  occupation  to  the  friv- 
olous gaieties  of  Nice  and  Monte  Carlo. 

Tourists,  more  than  ever,  keep  to  the  beaten 
track.  In  one  way  this  is  readily  enough  ac- 
counted for.  Well-worn  roads  are  much  more 
common  than  of  yore  and  they  are  more  acces- 
sible, and  travellers  like  to  keep  "  in  touch," 
as  they  call  it,  with  such  unnecessary  things 
as  up-to-date  pharmacies,  newspapers,  and 
lending  libraries,  which,  in  the  avowed  tourist 
resorts  of  the  French  and  Italian  Rivieras,  are 
as  accessible  as  they  are  on  the  Rue  de  Rivoli. 
There  are  occasional  by-paths  which  radiate 
from  even  these  centres  of  modernity  which 
lead  one  off  beyond  the  reach  of  steam-cars  and 
fils  telegraphiques;  but  they  are  mostly  un- 
worn roads  to  all  except  peasants  who  drive 
tiny  donkeys  in  carts  and  carry  bundles  on 
their  heads. 

One   might   think   that  no   part   of  modern 


22  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

France  was  at  all  solitary  and  unknown;  but 
one  has  only  to  recall  Stevenson's  charming 
"  Travels  with  a  Donkey  in  the  Cevennes,"  to 
realize  that  then  there  were  regions  which  Eng- 
lish readers  and  travellers  knew  not  of,  and  the 
same  is  almost  true  to-day. 

Provence  has  been  the  fruitful  field  for  anti- 
quarians and  students  of  languages,  manners, 
customs,  and  political  and  church  history,  of 
all  nationalities,  for  many  long  years ;  but  the 
large  numbers  of  travellers  who  annually  visit 
the  sunny  promenades  of  Nice  or  Cannes  never 
think  for  a  moment  of  spending  a  winter  at 
Martigues,  the  Provengal  Venice,  or  at  Nimes, 
or  Aries,  or  Avignon,  where,  if  the  ' '  mistral  ' ' 
does  blow  occasionally,  the  surroundings  are 
quite  as  brilliant  as  on  the  coast  itself,  the  mid- 
day sun  just  as  warm,  and  the  sundown  chill 
no  more  frigid  than  it  is  at  either  Cannes  or 
Nice. 

Truly  the  whole  Mediterranean  coast,  from 
Barcelona  to  Spezzia  in  Italy,  together  with 
the  cities  and  towns  immediately  adjacent, 
forms  a  touring-ground  more  varied  and  inter- 
esting even  than  Touraine,  often  thought  the 
touring-ground  par  excellence.  The  Provencal 
Riviera  itinerary  has,  moreover,  the  advantage 
of  being  more  accessible  than  Italy  or  Spain, 


A  Plea  for  Provence  23 

the  Holy  Land  or  Egypt,  and,  until  one  has 
known  its  charms  more  or  less  intimately,  he 
has  a  prospect  in  store  which  offers  more  of 
novelty  and  delightfulness  than  he  has  per- 
haps believed  possible  so  near  to  the  well-worn 
track  of  southern  travel. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE    PAYS   D'AELES 

The  Pays  d 'Aries  is  one  of  those  minor  sub- 
divisions of  undefined,  or  at  least  ill-defined, 
limits  that  are  scattered  all  over  France.  Local 
feeling  runs  high  in  all  of  them,  and  the  Ar- 
lesien  professes  a  great  contempt  for  the  Mar- 
tigaux  or  the  inhabitant  of  the  Pays  de  Ca- 
vaillon,  even  though  their  territories  border  on 
one  another;  though  indeed  all  three  join 
hands  when  it  comes  to  standing  up  for  their 
beloved  Provence. 

There  are  sixty  towns  and  villages  in  the 
Pays  d 'Aries,  extending  from  Tarascon  and 
Beaucaire  to  Les  Saintes  Maries,  St.  Mitre, 
and  Fos-sur-Mer  on  the  Mediterranean,  and 
eastward  to  Lambesc,  the  pays  enveloping  La 
Crau  and  the  fitang  de  Berre  within  its  imag- 
inary borders.  Avignon  and  Vaucluse  are  its 
neighbours  on  the  north  and  northeast,  and, 
taken  all  in  all,  it  is  as  historic  and  romantic 
a  region  as  may  be  found  in  all  Europe. 

24 


The  Pays  d 'Aries 25 

The  literary  guide-posts  throughout  Pro- 
vence are  numerous  and  prominent,  though  they 
cannot  all  be  enumerated  here.  One  may  wan- 
der with  Petrarch  in  and  around  Avignon  and 
Vaucluse;  he  may  coast  along  Dante's  high- 
way of  the  sea  from  the  Genoese  seaport  to 
Marseilles;  he  may  tarry  with  Tartarin  at 
Tarascon;  or  may  follow  in  the  footsteps  of 
Edmond  Dantes  from  Marseilles  to  Beaucaire 
and  Bellegarde;  and  in  any  case  he  will  only 
be  in  a  more  appreciative  mood  for  the  wonder- 
ful works  of  Mistral  and  his  fellows  of  the  Fe- 
libres. 

The  troubadours  and  the  "  courts  of  love  " 
have  gone  the  way  of  all  mediaeval  institutions 
and  nothing  has  quite  come  up  to  take  their 
place,  but  the  memory  of  all  the  literary  his- 
tory of  the  old  province  is  so  plentifully  be- 
strewn through  the  pages  of  modern  writers  of 
history  and  romance  that  no  spot  in  the  known 
world  is  more  prolific  in  reminders  of  those 
idyllic  times  than  this  none  too  well  known  and 
travelled  part  of  old  France. 

If  the  spirit  of  old  romance  is  so  dead  or 
latent  in  the  modern  traveller  by  automobile 
or  the  railway  that  he  does  not  care  to  go  back 
to  mediaeval  times,  he  can  still  turn  to  the 
pages  of  Daudet  and  find  portraiture  which 


26  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

is  so  characteristic  of  Tarascon  and  the  coun- 
try round  about  to-day  that  it  may  be  recog- 
nized even  by  the  stranger,  though  the  inhab- 
itant of  that  most  interesting  Rhone-side  city 
denies  that  there  is  the  slightest  resemblance. 

Then  there  is  Felix  Gras's  "  Rouges  du 
Midi,"  first  written  in  the  Provencal  tongue. 
One  must  not  call  the  tongue  a  patois,  for  the 
Provencal  will  tell  you  emphatically  that  his 
is  a  real  and  pure  tongue,  and  that  it  is  the 
Breton  who  speaks  a  patois. 

From  the  Provencal  this  famous  tale  of 
Felix  Gras  was  translated  into  French  and 
speedily  became  a  classic.  It  is  romance,  if  you 
like,  but  most  truthful,  if  only  because  it  proves 
Carlyle  and  his  estimates  of  the  celebrated 
1 '  Marseilles  Battalion  ' '  entirely  wrong.  Even 
in  the  English  translation  the  tale  loses  but 
little  of  its  originality  and  colour,  and  it  re- 
mains a  wonderful  epitome  of  the  traits  and 
characters  of  the  Provengaux. 

Dumas  himself,  in  that  time-tried  (but  not 
time-worn)  romance  of  "  Monte  Cristo,"  rises 
to  heights  of  topographical  description  and 
portrait  delineations  which  he  scarcely  ever 
excelled. 

Every  one  has  read,  and  supposedly  has  at 
his  finger-tips,  the  pages  of  this  thrilling  ro- 


The  Pays  d' Aries  27 


mance,  but  if  he  is  journeying  through  Pro- 
vence, let  him  read  it  all  again,  and  he  will  find 
passages  of  a  directness  and  truthfulness  that 
have  often  been  denied  this  author  —  by  critics 
who  have  taken  only  an  arbitrary  and  preju- 
diced view-point. 

Marseilles,  the  scene  of  the  early  career  of 
Dantes  and  the  lovely  Mercedes,  stands  out 
perhaps  most  clearly,  but  there  is  a  wonderful 
chapter  which  deals  with  the  Pays  d 'Aries,  and 
is  as  good  topographical  portraiture  to-day  as 
when  it  was  written. 

Here  are  some  lines  of  Dumas  which  no  trav- 
eller down  the  Rhone  valley  should  neglect  to 
take  as  his  guide  and  mentor  if  he  "  stops 
off  "  —  as  he  most  certainly  should  —  at  Taras- 
con,  and  makes  the  round  of  Tarascon,  Beau- 
caire,  Bellegarde,  and  the  Pont  du  Gard. 

"  Such  of  my  readers  as  may  have  made  a 
pedestrian  journey  to  the  south  of  France  may 
perhaps  have  noticed,  midway  between  the 
town  of  Beaucaire  and  the  village  of  Belle- 
garde,  a  small  roadside  inn,  from  the  front  of 
which  hung,  creaking  and  flapping  in  the  wind, 
a  sheet  of  tin  covered  with  a  rude  representa- 
tion of  the  ancient  Pont  du  Gard." 

There  is  nothing  which  corresponds  to  this 
ancient  inn  sign  to  be  seen  to-day,  but  any  one 


28  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

of  a  dozen  humble  houses  by  the  side  of  the 
canal  which  runs  from  Beaucaire  to  Aigues 
Mortes  might  have  been  the  inn  in  question, 
kept  by  the  unworthy  Caderousse,  with  whom 
Dantes,  disguised  as  the  abbe,  had  the  long 
parley  which  ultimately  resulted  in  his  getting 
on  the  track  of  his  former  defamers. 

Dumas 's  further  descriptions  were  astonish- 
ingly good,  as  witness  the  following: 

"  The  place  boasted  of  what,  in  these  parts, 
was  called  a  garden,  scorched  beneath  the  ar- 
dent sun  of  this  latitude,  with  its  soil  giving 
nourishment  to  a  few  stunted  olive  and  dingy 
fig  trees,  around  which  grew  a  scanty  supply 
of  tomatoes,  garlic,  and  eschalots,  with  a  sort 
of  a  lone  sentinel  in  the  shape  of  a  scrubby 
pine." 

If  this  were  all  that  there  was  of  Provence, 
the  picture  might  be  thought  an  unlovely  one, 
but  there  is  a  good  deal  more,  though  often 
enough  one  does  see  —  just  as  Dumas  pictured 
it  —  this  sort  of  habitation,  all  but  scorched  to 
death  by  the  dazzling  southern  sun. 

At  the  time  of  which  Dumas  wrote,  the  canal 
between  Beaucaire  and  Aigues  Mortes  had  just 
been  opened  and  the  traffic  which  once  went 
on  by  road  between  this  vast  trading-place 
(for  the  annual  fair  of  Beaucaire,  like  that  of 


The  Pays  d'Arles  29 


Guibray  in  Normandy,  and  to  some  extent  like 
that  of  Nijni  Novgorod,  was  one  of  the  most 
considerable  of  its  kind  in  the  known  world) 
and  the  cities  and  towns  of  the  southwest  came 
to  be  conducted  by  barge  and  boat,  and  so 
Caderousse's  inn  had  languished  from  a  sheer 
lack  of  patronage. 

Dumas  does  not  forget  his  tribute  to  the 
women  of  the  Pays  d'Arles,  either;  and  here 
again  he  had  a  wonderfully  facile  pen.  Of 
Caderousse  and  his  wife  he  says: 

' '  Like  other  dwellers  of  the  southland,  Cade- 
rousse was  a  man  of  sober  habits  and  mod- 
erate desires,  but  fond  of  external  show  and 
display  and  vain  to  a  degree.  During  the  days 
of  his  prosperity,  not  a  fete  or  a  ceremonial 
took  place  but  that  he  and  his  wife  were  par- 
ticipants. On  these  occasions  he  dressed  him- 
self in  the  picturesque  costume  worn  at  such 
times  by  the  dwellers  in  the  south  of  France, 
bearing  an  equal  resemblance  to  the  style  worn 
by  Catalans  and  Andalusians. 

"  His  wife  displayed  the  charming  fashion 
prevalent  among  the  women  of  Aries,  a  mode 
of  attire  borrowed  equally  from  Greece  and 
Arabia,  with  a  glorious  combination  of  chains, 
necklaces,  and  scarves." 

The  women  of  the  Pays  d'Arles  have  the 


30  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

reputation  of  being  the  most  beautiful  of  all 
the  many  types  of  beautiful  women  in  France, 
and  they  are  faithful,  always,  to  what  is  known 
as  the  costume  of  the  pays,  which,  it  must  be 
understood,  is  something  more  than  the  coiffe 
which  usually  marks  the  distinctive  dress  of  a 
petit  pays. 

It  is  a  common  error  among  rhapsodizing 
tourists  who  have  occasionally  stopped  at 
Aries,  en  route  to  the  pleasures  of  the  Riviera, 
to  suppose  that  the  original  Arlesien  costume 
is  that  seen  to-day.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it 
dates  back  only  about  four  generations,  and 
it  was  well  on  in  the  forties  of  the  nineteenth 
century  when  the  ruban-diademe  and  the 
Phrygian  coiffe  came  to  be  the  caprice  of  the 
day.  In  this  form  it  has,  however,  endured 
throughout  all  the  sixty  villages  and  towns  of 
the  pays. 

The  ruban-diademe,  the  coiffe,  the  corsage, 
the  fichu,  the  jupon,  and  a  chain  bearing,  usu- 
ally, a  Maltese  cross,  all  combine  to  set  off  in 
a  marvellous  manner  the  loveliness  of  these 
large-eyed  beauties  of  Provence. 

Only  after  they  have  reached  their  thirteenth 
or  fourteenth  year  do  the  young  girls  as- 
sume the  coiffure,  —  when  they  have  com- 
menced to  see  beyond  their  noses,  as  the  saying 


The  Pays  d'Arles 31 

goes  in  French,  —  when,  until  old  age  carries 
them  off,  they  are  always  as  jauntily  dressed 
as  if  they  were  toujours  en  fete. 

There  is  a  romantic  glamour  about  Aries, 
its  arena,  its  theatre,  its  marvellously  beautiful 
Church  of  St.  Trophime,  and  much  else  that  is 
fascinating  to  all  travelled  and  much-read  per- 
sons ;  and  so  Aries  takes  the  chief  place  in  the 
galaxy  of  old-time  Provengal  towns,  before 
even  Nimes,  Avignon,  and  Aix-en-Provence. 

Everything  is  in  a  state  of  decay  at  Aries; 
far  more  so,  at  least,  than  at  Nimes,  where  the 
arena  is  much  better  preserved,  and  the  ' '  Mai- 
son  Carree  "  is  a  gem  which  far  exceeds  any 
monument  of  Aries  in  its  beauty  and  preserva- 
tion; or  at  Orange,  where  the  antique  theatre 
is  superb  beyond  all  others,  both  in  its  pro- 
portions and  in  its  existing  state  of  preserva- 
tion. 

The  charm  of  Aries  lies  in  its  former  renown 
and  in  the  reminders,  fragmentary  though  some 
of  them  be,  of  its  past  glories.  In  short  it  is 
a  city  so  rich  in  all  that  goes  to  make  up  the 
attributes  of  a  "  ville  de  I'art  celebre,"  that  it 
has  a  special  importance. 

Marseilles,  among  the  cities  of  modern 
France,  has  usually  been  considered  the  most 
ancient;    but  even  that  existed  as  a  city  but 


32  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

six  hundred  years  before  the  Christian  era, 
whereas  Anibert,  a  "  savant  Arlesien,"  has 
stated  that  the  founding  of  Aries  dates  back 
to  fifteen  hundred  years  before  Christ,  or  nine 
hundred  years  before  that  of  Marseilles.  In 
the  lack  of  any  convincing  evidence  one  way 
or  another,  one  can  let  his  sympathies  drift 
where  they  will,  but  Aries  certainly  looks  its 
age  more  than  does  Marseilles. 

It  would  not  be  practicable  here  to  catalogue 
all  the  monumental  attractions  of  the  Aries  of 
a  past  day  which  still  remain  to  remind  one 
of  its  greatness.  The  best  that  the  writer  can 
do  is  to  advise  the  traveller  to  take  his  ease 
at  his  inn,  which  in  this  case  may  be  either 
the  excellent  Hotel  du  Nord-Pinus  —  which  has 
a  part  of  the  portico  of  the  ancient  forum  built 
into  its  facade  —  or  across  the  Place  du  Forum 
at  the  Hotel  du  Forum.  From  either  vantage- 
ground  one  will  get  a  good  start,  and  much 
assistance  from  the  obliging  patrons,  and  a 
day,  a  week,  or  a  month  is  not  too  much  to 
spend  in  this  charming  old-time  capital. 

Among  the  many  sights  of  Aries  three  dis- 
tinct features  will  particularly  impress  the 
visitor:  the  proximity  of  the  Rhone,  the  great 
arena  and  its  neighbouring  theatre,  and  the 
Cathedral  of  St.  Trophime. 


The  Pays  d'Arles  33 

It  was  in  the  thirteenth  century  that  Aries 
first  came  to  distinction  as  one  of  the  great 
Latin  ports.  The  Rhone  had  for  ages  past 
bathed  its  walls,  and  what  more  natural  than 
that  the  river  should  be  the  highway  which 
should  bring  the  city  into  intercourse  with  the 
outside  world? 

Soon  it  became  rich  and  powerful  and  bid 
fair  to  become  a  ship-owning  community  which 
should  rival  the  coast  towns  themselves,  and 
its  "  lion  banners  "  flew  masthead  high  in  all 
the  ports  of  the  Mediterranean. 

The  navigation  of  the  Rhone  at  this  time 
presented  many  difficulties;  the  estuary  was 
always  shifting,  as  it  does  still,  though  the 
question  of  navigating  the  river  has  been 
solved,  or  made  the  easier,  by  the  engineering 
skill  of  the  present  day. 

The  cargoes  coming  by  sea  were  transshipped 
into  a  curious  sort  of  craft  known  as  an  allege, 
from  which  they  were  distributed  to  all  the 
towns  along  the  Rhone.  The  carrying  trade 
remained,  however,  in  the  hands  of  the  Arle- 
siens.  The  great  fair  of  Beaucaire,  renowned 
as  it  was  throughout  all  of  Europe,  contributed 
not  a  little  to  the  traffic.  For  six  weeks  in 
each  year  it  was  a  great  market  for  all  the 
goods  and  stuffs  of  the  universe,  and  gave  such 


34  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

a  strong  impetus  to  trade  that  the  effects  were 
felt  throughout  the  year  in  all  the  neighbouring 
cities  and  towns. 

The  Cathedral  of  St.  Trophime,  as  regards 
its  portal  and  cloister,  may  well  rank  first 
among  the  architectural  delights  of  its  class. 
The  decorations  of  its  portal  present  a  com- 
plicated drama  of  religious  figures  and  sym- 
bols, at  once  austere  and  dignified  and  yet 
fantastic  in  their  design  and  arrangement. 
There  is  nothing  like  it  in  all  France,  except 
its  near-by  neighbour  at  St.  Grilles-du-Rhone, 
and,  in  the  beauty  and  excellence  of  its  carving, 
it  far  excels  the  splendid  facades  of  Amiens 
and  Reims,  even  though  they  are  more  exten- 
sive and  more  magnificently  disposed. 

The  main  fabric  of  the  church,  and  its  in- 
terior, are  ordinary  enough,  and  are  in  no  way 
different  from  hundreds  of  a  similar  type  else- 
where; but  in  the  cloister,  to  the  rear,  archi- 
tectural excellence  again  rises  to  a  superlative 
height.  Here,  in  a  justly  proportioned  quad- 
rangle, are  to  be  seen  four  distinct  periods  and 
styles  of  architectural  decoration,  from  the 
round-headed  arches  of  the  colonnade  on  one 
side,  up  through  the  primitive  Gothic  on  the 
second,  the  later  and  more  florid  variety  on 
the  third,  and  finally  the  debasement  in  Renais- 


The  Pays  d'Arles  35 

sance  forms  and  outlines  on  the  fourth.  The 
effect  is  most  interesting  and  curious  both  to 
the  student  of  architectural  art  and  to  the  lover 
of  old  churches,  and  is  certainly  unfamiliar 
enough  in  its  arrangement  to  warrant  hazard- 
ing the  opinion  that  it  is  unique  among  the  cele- 
brated mediaeval  cloisters  still  existing. 

Immediately  behind  the  cathedral  are  the 
remains  of  the  theatre  and  the  arena.  Less 
well  preserved  than  that  at  Orange,  the  theatre 
of  the  Aries  of  the  Romans,  a  mere  ruined 
waste  to-day,  gives  every  indication  of  having 
been  one  of  the  most  important  works  of  its 
kind  in  Gaul,  although,  judging  from  its  pres- 
ent admirable  state  of  preservation,  that  of 
Orange  was  the  peer  of  its  class. 

To-day  there  are  but  a  scattered  lot  of  tum- 
bled-about  remains,  much  of  the  structure  hav- 
ing gone  to  build  up  other  edifices  in  the  town, 
before  the  days  when  proper  guardianship  was 
given  to  such  chronicles  in  stone.  A  great 
porte  still  exists,  some  arcades,  two  lone,  star- 
ing columns,  —  still  bearing  their  delicately 
sculptured  capitals,  —  and  numerous  ranges  of 
rising  banquettes. 

This  old  theatre  romain  must  have  been  or- 
namented with  a  lavish  disregard  for  expense, 
for  it  was  in  the  ruins  here  that  the  celebrated 


36  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

Venus  d 'Aries  was  discovered  in  1651,  and 
given  to  Louis  XIV.  in  1683. 

The  arena  is  much  better  preserved  than  the 
theatre.  It  is  a  splendid  and  colossal  monu- 
ment, surpassing  any  other  of  its  kind  outside 
of  Rome.  Its  history  is  very  full  and  com- 
plete, and  writers  of  the  olden  time  have  re- 
counted many  odious  combats  and  many  spec- 
tacles wherein  ferocious  beasts  and  gladiators 
played  a  part.  To-day  bull-fights,  with  some- 
thing of  an  approach  to  the  splendour  of  the 
Spanish  variety,  furnish  the  bloodthirsty  of 
Aries  with  their  amusement.  There  is  this 
advantage  in  witnessing  the  sport  at  Aries: 
one  sees  it  amid  a  mediaeval  stage  setting  that 
is  lacking  in  Spain. 

It  is  in  this  arena  that  troops  of  wild  beasts, 
brought  from  all  parts  of  the  empire,  tore 
into  pieces  the  poor  unfortunates  who  were 
held  captive  in  the  prisons  beneath  the  gal- 
leries. These  dungeons  are  shown  to-day, 
with  much  bloodthirsty  recital,  by  the  very 
painstaking  guardian,  who,  for  an  appropriate, 
though  small,  fee,  searches  out  the  keys  and 
opens  the  gateway  to  this  imposing  enclosure, 
where  formerly  as  many  as  twenty-five  thou- 
sand persons  assemble  to  witness  the  cruel  sac- 
rifices. 


A  Young  Arlesienne 


The  Pays  <T Aries  37 

Tiberius  Nero  —  a  name  which  has  come  to 
be  a  synonym  of  moral  degradation  —  was  one 
of  the  principal  colonizers  of  Aries,  and  built, 
it  is  supposed,  this  arena  for  his  savage  pleas- 
ures. In  its  perfect  state  it  would  have  been 
a  marvel,  but  the  barbarians  partly  ruined  it 
and  turned  it  into  a  sort  of  fortified  camp.  In 
a  more  or  less  damaged  state  it  existed  until 
1825,  when  the  parasitical  structures  which  had 
been  built  up  against  its  walls  were  removed, 
and  it  was  freed  to  light  and  air  for  the  trav- 
eller of  a  later  day  to  marvel  and  admire. 

Modern  Aries  has  quite  another  story  to  tell ; 
it  is  typical  of  all  the  traditions  of  the  Provence 
of  old,  and  it  is  that  city  of  Provence  that  best 
presents  the  present-day  life  of  southern 
France. 

Even  to-day  the  well-recognized  type  of 
Arlesienne  ranks  among  the  beautiful  women 
of  the  world.  Possessed  of  a  carriage  that 
would  be  remarked  even  on  the  boulevards  of 
Paris,  and  of  a  beauty  of  feature  that  enables 
her  to  concede  nothing  to  her  sisters  of  other 
lands,  the  Arlesienne  is  ever  a  pleasing  picture. 
As  much  as  anything,  it  is  the  costume  and  the 
coiffe  that  contributes  to  her  beauty,  for  the 
tiny  white  bonnet  or  cap,  bound  with  a  broad 
black  ribbon,  sets  off  her  raven  locks  in  a  be- 


38  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

witching  manner.  Simplicity  and  harmony  is 
the  key-note  of  it  all,  and  the  women  of  Aries 
are  not  made  jealous  or  conceited  by  the  chang- 
ing of  Paris  fashions. 

The  contrast  between  what  is  left  of  ancient 
Aries  and  the  commercial  aspect  of  the  modern 
city  is  everywhere  to  be  remarked,  for  Aries 
is  the  distributing-point  for  all  the  products 
of  the  Camargue  and  the  Crau,  and  the  life  of 
the  cafes  and  hotels  is  to  a  great  extent  that 
of  the  busy  merchants  of  the  town  and  their 
clients  from  far  and  near.  All  this  gives  Aries 
a  certain  air  of  metropolitanism,  but  it  does 
not  in  the  least  overshadow  the  memories  of 
its  past. 

In  the  open  country  northwest  of  Aries  is 
the  ancient  Benedictine  abbey  of  Montmajour, 
twice  destroyed  and  twice  reerected.  Finally 
abandoned  in  the  thirteenth  century,  it  was 
carefully  guarded  by  the  proprietors,  until 
now  it  ranks  as  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
of  the  historical  monuments  of  its  kind  in  all 
France. 

It  has  quite  as  much  the  appearance  of  a  for- 
tress as  of  a  religious  establishment,  for  its 
great  fourteenth-century  tower,  with  its  machi- 
coulis and  tourelles,  suggest  nothing  churchly, 
but  rather  an  attribute  of  a  warlike  stronghold. 


The  Pays  d' Aries 


39 


The  majestic  church  needs  little  in  the  way 
of  rebuilding  and  restoration  to  assume  the 
splendour  that  it  must  have  had  under  its 
monkish  proprietors  of  another  day.  Beneath 
is  another  edifice,  much  like  a  crypt,  but  which 
expert  archaeologists  tell  one  is  not  a  crypt  in 


W  '~y:;-O^Js 


Abbey  of  Montmajour  and  Vineyard 


the  generally  accepted  sense  of  the  term.  At 
any  rate  it  is  much  better  lighted  than  crypts 
usually  are,  and  looks  not  unlike  an  earlier 
edifice,  which  was  simply  built  up  and  another 
story  added. 

The  remains  of  the  cloister  are  worthy  to 
be  classed  in  the  same  category  as  that  won- 
derful work  of  St.  Trophime,  but  whether  the 
one  inspired  the  other,  or  they  both  proceeded 


40  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

simultaneously,  neither  history  nor  the  local 
antiquaries  can  state. 

Besides  the  conventional  buildings  proper 
there  are  a  primitive  chapel  and  a  hermitage 
once  dedicated  to  the  uses  of  St.  Trophime. 
Since  these  minor  structures,  if  they  may  be 
so  called,  date  from  the  sixth  century,  they 
may  be  considered  as  among  the  oldest  exist- 
ing religious  monuments  in  France.  The 
"  Commission  des  Monuments  Historiques  " 
guards  the  remains  of  this  opulent  abbey  and 
its  dependencies  of  a  former  day  with  jealous 
care,  and  if  any  restorations  are  undertaken 
they  are  sure  to  be  carried  out  with  taste  and 
skill. 

Near  Montmajour  is  another  religious  edi- 
fice of  more  than  passing  remark,  the  Chapelle 
Ste.  Croix.  Its  foundation  has  been  attributed 
to  Charlemagne,  and  again  to  Charles  Martel, 
who  gave  to  it  the  name  which  it  still  bears 
in  commemoration  of  his  victory  over  the 
Saracens.  It  is  a  simple  but  very  beautiful 
structure,  in  the  form  of  a  Greek  cross,  and 
admirably  vaulted  and  groined.  There  are 
innumerable  sepulchres  scattered  about  and 
many  broken  and  separated  funeral  monu- 
ments, which  show  the  prominence  of  this  little 


The  Pays  d'Arles  41 

commemorative    chapel    among    those    of    its 
class. 

Every  seven  years,  that  is  to  say  whenever 
the  3d  of  May  falls  on  a  Friday  (the  anni- 
versary of  the  victory  of  Charles  Martel),  the 
chapel  become  a  place  of  pious  pilgrimages 
for  great  numbers  of  the  thankful  and  devout 
from  all  parts  of  France. 


CHAPTER   III. 

ST.    REMY   DE   PROVENCE 

St.  Remy  de  Provence  is  delightful  and  in- 
describable in  its  quiet  charm.  It's  not  so  very 
quiet  either  —  at  times  —  and  its  great  Fete 
de  St.  Remy  in  October  is  anything  but  quiet. 
On  almost  any  summer  Sunday,  too,  its  cafes 
and  terraces,  and  the  numerous  tree-bordered 
squares  and  places,  and  its  Cours  —  the  in- 
evitable adjunct  of  all  Provencal  towns  —  are 
as  gay  with  the  life  of  the  town  and  the  country 
round  about  as  any  local  metropolis  in  France. 

The  local  merchants  call  St.  Remy  "  toujours 
un  pays  mort,"  but  in  spite  of  this  they  all 
eke  out  considerably  more  than  what  a  full- 
blooded  Burgundian  would  call  a  good  living. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  the  population  of  St.  Remy 
live  on  something  approaching  the  abundance 
of  good  things  of  the  Cote  d'Or  itself.  There 
is  perhaps  nothing  remarkable  about  this,  in 
the  midst  of  a  mild  and  pleasant  land  like  Pro- 
vence ;  but  it  seems  wise  to  state  it  here,  for  we 

42 


St.  Remy  de  Provence  43 

know  of  an  Englishman  who  stayed  three  days 
at  St.  Renry's  most  excellent  Grand  Hotel  de 
Provence  and  complained  because  he  did  not 
get  beefsteaks  or  ham  and  eggs  for  a  single 
meal!  He  got  carp  from  Vaucluse,  langouste 
from  St.  Louis-de-Rhone,  the  finest  sort  of 
lamb  (but  not  plain  boiled,  with  cauliflower  as 
a  side  dish),  chickens  of  the  real  spring  variety, 
or  a  brace  of  little  wild  birds  which  look  like 
sparrows  and  taste  like  quail,  but  which  are 
neither  —  with,  as  like  as  not,  a  bottle  of  Cha- 
teauneuf  des  Papes,  grapes,  figs,  olives,  and 
goat's  milk  cheese.  Either  this,  or  a  variation 
of  it,  was  his  daily  menu  for  breakfast  or  din- 
ner, and  still  he  pined  for  beefsteaks !  Had  our 
traveller  been  an  American  he  would  perhaps 
have  cried  aloud  for  boiled  codfish  or  pumpkin 
pie! 

The  hotel  of  St.  Remy  is  to  be  highly  com- 
mended in  spite  of  all  this,  though  the  writer 
has  only  partaken  of  an  occasional  meal  there. 
He  got  nearer  the  soil,  living  the  greater  part 
of  one  long  bright  autumn  in  the  household 
of  an  estimable  tradesman,  —  a  baker  by  trade, 
though  considering  that  he  made  a  great  ac- 
complishment of  it,  it  may  well  be  reckoned  a 
profession. 

Up  at  three  in  the  morning,  he,   with  the 


44  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

assistance  of  a  small  boy,  —  some  day  destined 
to  be  his  successor,  —  puts  in  his  artistic 
touches  on  the  patting  and  shaping  of  the  vari- 
ous loaves,  ultimately  sliding  them  into  the 
great  low-ceiled  brick  oven  with  a  sort  of  elon- 
gated snow-shovel  such  as  bakers  use  the  world 
over. 

It  was  in  his  manipulating  of  things  that 
the  art  of  it  all  came  in.  Frenchmen  will  not 
all  eat  bread  fashioned  in  the  same  form,  and 
the  cottage  loaf  is  unknown  in  France.  One 
may  have  a  preference  for  a  "  pain  mowffle," 
a  long  sort  of  a  roll;  or,  if  he  likes  a  crusty 
morsel,  nothing  but  a  "  pistolet  "  or  a 
"  baton  "  will  do  him.  Others  will  eat  noth- 
ing but  a  great  circular  washer  of  bread  — 
"  comme  un  rond  de  cuir  "  —  or  a  e*  tresse," 
which  is  three  plaited  strands,  also  crusty.  A 
favourite  with  toothless  old  veterans  of  the 
Crimea  or  beldames  who  have  seen  seventy  or 
eighty  summers  is  the  "  chapeau  de  gen- 
darme," a  three-cornered  sort  of  an  affair 
with  no  crust  to  speak  of. 

By  midday  the  baker-host  had  become  the 
merchant  of  the  town  and  had  dressed  himself 
in  a  garb  more  or  less  approaching  city  fash- 
ions, and  seated  himself  in  a  sort  of  back  par- 
lour  to   the   shop    in   front,   which,   however, 


St.  Remy  de  Provence  45 


served   as    a    kitchen   and   a   dining-room    as 
well. 

Many  and  bountiful  and  excellent  were  the 
meals  eaten  en  famille  in  the  room  back  of  the 
shop,  often  enough  in  company  with  a  beau- 
frere,  who  came  frequently  from  Cavaillon,  and 
a  niece  and  her  husband,  who  was  an  attorney, 
and  who  lived  in  a  great  Renaissance  stone 
house  opposite  the  fountain  of  Nostradamus, 
St.  Remy's  chief  titular  deity. 

These  were  the  occasions  when  eating  and 
drinking  was  as  superlative*"  an  expression  of 
the  joy  of  life  as  one  is  likely  to  have  experi- 
enced in  these  degenerate  days  when  we  are 
mostly  nourished  by  means  of  patent  foods 
and  automatic  buffets. 

"  My  brother  has  a  pretty  taste  in  wine," 
says  the  beau-frere  from  Cavaillon,  as  he  opens 
another  bottle  of  the  wine  of  St.  Remy,  grown 
on  the  hillside  just  overlooking  "  les  antiqui- 
tes."  Those  relics  of  the  Roman  occupation 
are  the  pride  of  the  citizen,  who  never  tires  of 
strolling  up  the  road  with  a  stranger,  and 
pointing  out  the  beauties  of  these  really  charm- 
ing historical  monuments.  Truly  M.  Farges 
did  have  a  pretty  taste  in  wine,  and  he  had  a 
cellar  as  well  stocked  in  quantity  and  variety 
as  that  of  a  Riviera  hotel-keeper. 


46  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

Not  the  least  of  the  attractions  of  M. 
Farges's  board  was  the  grace  with  which  his 
Arlesienne  wife  presided  over  the  good  things 
of  the  casserole  and  the  spit,  that  long  skewer 
which,  when  loaded  with  a  chicken,  or  a  duck, 
or  a  dozen  small  birds,  turned  slowly  by  clock- 
work before  a  fire  of  olive-tree  roots  on  the 
open  hearth,  or  rather,  on  top  of  the  fourneau, 
which  was  only  used  itself  for  certain  opera- 
tions. Baked  meats  and  roti  are  two  vastly 
different  things  in  France. 

"  Marcel,  he  bakes  the  bread,  and  I  cook 
for  him,"  says  the  jauntily  coiffed,  buxom  lit- 
tle lady,  whose  partner  Marcel  had  been  for 
some  thirty  years.  In  spite  of  the  passing  of 
time,  both  were  still  young,  or  looked  it,  though 
they  were  of  that  ample  girth  which  betokens 
good  living,  and,  what  is  quite  as  important, 
good  cooking;  and  madame's  taste  in  cookery 
was  as  ' '  pretty  ' '  as  her  husband 's  for  bread- 
making  and  wine. 

Given  a  casserole  half-full  of  boiling  oil 
(also  a  product  of  St.  Eemy's;  real  olive-oil, 
with  no  dilution  of  cottonseed  to  flatten  out  the 
taste)  and  anything  whatever  eatable  to  drop 
in  it,  and  Madame  Farges  will  work  wonders 
with  her  deftness  and  skill,  and,  like  all  good 
cooks,  do  it,  apparently,  by  guesswork. 


St.  Remy  de  Provence  47 

It  is  a  marvel  to  the  writer  that  some  one 
has  not  written  a  book  devoted  to  the  little 
every-day  happenings  of  the  French  middle 
classes.  Manifestly  the  trades  of  the  butcher, 
the  baker,  and  the  candlestick-maker  have  the 
same  ends  in  view  in  France  as  elsewhere,  but 
their  procedure  is  so  different,  so  very  dif- 
ferent. 

It  strikes  the  foreigner  as  strange  that  your 
baker  here  gives  you  a  tally-stick,  even  to-day, 
when  pass-books  and  all  sorts  of  automatic  cal- 
culators are  everywhere  to  be  found.  It  is  a 
fact,  however,  that  your  baker  does  this  at  St. 
Remy;  and  regulates  the  length  of  your  credit 
by  the  length  of  the  stick,  a  plan  which  has 
many  advantages  for  all  concerned  over  other 
methods. 

You  arrange  as  to  what  your  daily  loaf  shall 
be,  and  for  every  one  delivered  a  notch  is  cut 
in  the  stick,  which  you  guard  as  you  would 
your  purse ;  that  is,  you  guard  your  half  of  it, 
for  it  has  been  split  down  the  middle,  and  the 
worthy  baker  has  a  whole  battery  of  these  split 
sticks  strung  along  the  dashboard  of  his  cart. 
The  two  separate  halves  are  put  together  when 
the  notch  is  cut  across  the  joint,  and  there  you 
have  undisputable  evidence  of  delivery.  It's 
very   much   simpler   than   the   old   backwoods 


48 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


system  of  keeping  accounts  on  a  slate,  and  wip- 
ing off  the  slate  when  they  were  paid,  and  it's 
safer  for  all  concerned.  When  you  pay  your 
baker  at  St.  Reiny,  he  steps  inside  your  kitchen 


Baher's  Tally-sticks 


and  puts  the  two  sticks  on  the  fire,  and  together 
you  see  them  go  up  in  smoke. 

St.  Remy  itself  is  a  historic  shrine,  sitting 
jauntily  beneath  the  jagged  profile  of  the  Al- 
pines, from  whose  crest  one  gets  one  of  those 
wonderful  vistas  of  a  rocky  gorge  which  is, 


St.  Remy 


St.  Remy  de  Provence  49 

in  a  small  way,  only  comparable  to  the  caiion 
of  the  Colorado.  It  is  indeed  a  splendid  view 
that  one  gets  just  as  he  rises  over  the  crest  of 
this  not  very  ample  or  very  lofty  mountain 
range,  and  it  has  all  the  elements  of  grandeur 
and  brilliancy  which  are  possessed  by  its  more 
famous  prototypes.  It  is  quite  indescribable, 
hence  the  illustration  herewith  must  be  left  to 
tell  its  own  story. 

Below,  in  the  ample  plain  in  which  St.  Remy 
sits,  is  a  wonderful  garden  of  fruits  and  flow- 
ers. St.  Remy  is  a  great  centre  for  commerce 
in  olives,  olive-oil,  vegetables,  and  fruit  which 
is  put  up  into  tins  and  exported  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth. 

Not  every  one  likes  olive-trees  as  a  pictur- 
esque note  in  a  landscape  any  more  than  every 
one  likes  olives  to  eat.  But  for  all  that  the 
grayish-green  tones  of  the  flat-topped  oliviers 
of  these  parts  are  just  the  sort  of  things  that 
artists  love,  and  a  plantation  of  them,  viewed 
from  a  hill  above,  has  as  much  variety  of  tone, 
and  shade,  and  colour  as  a  field  of  heather  or 
a  poppy-strewn  prairie. 

The  inhabitants  of  most  of  the  old-time  prov- 
inces of  France  have  generally  some  special 
heirloom  of  which  they  are  exceedingly  fond; 
but  not  so  fond  but  that  they  will  part  with 


50  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

it  for  a  price.  The  Breton  has  his  great 
closed-in  bed,  the  Norman  his  armoire,  and  the 
Provengal  his  "  grandfather's  clock,"  or,  at 
least,  a  great,  tall,  curiously  wrought  affair, 
which  we  outsiders  have  come  to  designate  as 
such. 

Not  all  of  these  great  timepieces  which  are 
found  in  the  peasant  homes  round  about  St. 
Remy  are  ancient;  indeed,  few  of  them  are, 
but  all  have  a  certain  impressiveness  about 
them  which  a  household  god  ought  to  have, 
whether  it  is  a  real  antique  or  a  gaudily  painted 
thing  with  much  brasswork  and,  above  all,  a 
gong  that  strikes  at  painfully  frequent  inter- 
vals with  a  vociferousness  which  would  wake 
the  Seven  Sleepers  if  they  hadn't  been  asleep 
so  long. 

The  traffic  in  these  tall,  coffin-like  clocks  — 
though  they  are  not  by  any  means  sombre  in 
hue  —  is  considerable  at  St.  Remy.  The  local 
clock-maker  (he  doesn't  really  make  them) 
buys  the  cases  ready-made  from  St.  Claude, 
or  some  other  wood-carving  town  in  the  Jura 
or  Switzerland,  and  the  works  in  Germany, 
and  assembles  them  in  his  shop,  and  stencils  his 
name  in  bold  letters  on  the  face  of  the  thing 
as  maker.  This  is  deception,  if  you  like,  but 
there  is  no  great  wrong  in  it,  and,  since  the 


St.  Remy  de  Provence  51 

clock  and  watch  trade  the  world  over  does  the 
same  thing,  it  is  one  of  the  immoralities  which 
custom  has  made  moral. 

They  are  not  dear,  these  great  clocks  of 
Provence,  which  more  than  one  tourist  has  car- 
ried away  with  him  before  now  as  a  genuine 
' '  antique. ' '  Forty  or  fifty  francs  will  buy  one, 
the  price  depending  on  the  amount  of  chasing 
on  the  brass  work  of  its  great  pendulum. 

Six  feet  tall  they  stand,  in  rows,  all  painted 
as  gaudily  as  a  circus  wagon,  waiting  for  some 
peasant  to  come  along  and  make  his  selection. 
When  it  does  arrive  at  some  humble  cottage 
in  the  Alpines,  or  in  the  marshy  vineyard  plain 
beside  the  Rhone,  there  is  a  sort  of  house- 
warming  and  much  feasting,  which  costs  the 
peasant  another  fifty  francs  as  a  christening 
fee. 

The  clocks  of  St.  Remy  and  the  panetieres 
which  hang  on  the  wall  and  hold  the  household 
supply  of  bread  open  to  the  drying  influences 
of  the  air,  and  yet  away  from  rats  and  mice, 
are  the  chief  and  most  distinctive  house-fur- 
nishings of  the  homes  of  the  countryside. 
For  the  rest  the  Provencal  peasant  is  as  likely 
to  buy  himself  a  wickerwork  chair,  or  a  German 
or  American  sewing-machine,  with  which  to 
decorate  his  home,  as  anything  else.    One  thing 


52 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


he  will  not  have  foreign  to  his  environment, 
and  that  is  his  cooking  utensils.  His  "  batterie 
de  cuisine  "  may  not  be  as  ample  as  that  of 
the  great  hotels,  but  every  one  knows  that  the 
casseroles  of  commerce,  whether  one  sees  them 


A  Panetiere 


in  San  Francisco,  Buenos  Ayres,  or  Soho,  are 
a  Provencal  production,  and  that  there  is  a 
certain  little  town,  not  many  hundred  miles 
from  St.  Remy,  which  is  devoted  almost  ex- 
clusively to  the  making  of  this  all-useful  cook- 
ing utensil. 

The  panetieres,  like  the  clocks,  have  a  great 


St.  Remy  de  Provence  5 


o 


fascination  for  the  tourist,  and  the  desire  to 
possess  one  has  been  known  to  have  been  so 
great  as  to  warrant  an  offer  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  francs  for  an  article  which  the  pres- 
ent proprietor  probably  bought  for  twenty  not 
many  months  before. 

St.  Remy's  next-door  neighbour,  just  across 
the  ridge  of  the  Alpines,  is  Les  Baux. 

Every  traveller  in  Provence  who  may  have 
heard  of  Les  Baux  has  had  a  desire  to  know 
more  of  it  based  on  a  personal  acquaintance. 

To-day  it  is  nothing  but  a  scrappy,  tumble- 
down ruin  of  a  once  proud  city  of  four  thou- 
sand inhabitants.  Its  foundation  dates  back 
to  the  fifth  century,  and  five  hundred  years 
later  its  seigneurs  possessed  the  rights  over 
more  than  sixty  neighbouring  towns.  It  was 
only  saved  in  recent  years  from  total  destruc- 
tion by  the  foresight  of  the  French  govern- 
ment, which  has  stepped  in  and  passed  a  decree 
that  henceforth  it  is  to  rank  as  one  of  those 
"  monuments  Mstoriques  "  over  which  it  has 
spread  its  guardian  wing. 

Les  Baux  of  the  present  day  is  nothing  but 
a  squalid  hamlet,  and  from  the  sternness  of  the 
topography  round  about  one  wonders  how  its 
present  small  population  gains  its  livelihood, 
unless  it  be  that  they  live  on  goat's  milk  and 


54  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

goat's  meat,  each  of  them  a  little  strong  for 
a  general  diet.  As  a  picture  paradise  for  art- 
ists, however,  Les  Baux  is  the  peer  of  any- 
thing of  its  class  in  all  France ;  but  that  indeed 
is  another  story. 

The  historical  and  architectural  attractions 
of  Les  Baux  are  many,  though,  without  excep- 
tion, they  are  in  a  ruinous  state.  The  Chateau 
des  Baux  was  founded  on  the  site  of  an  oppi- 
dum  gaulois  in  the  fifth  century,  and  in  succes- 
sive centuries  was  enlarged,  modified,  and 
aggrandized  for  its  seigneurs,  who  bore  suc- 
cessively the  titles  of  Prince  d 'Orange,  Comte 
de  Provence,  Eoi  d  'Aries  et  de  Vienne,  and 
Empereur  de  Constantinople. 

One  of  the  chief  monuments  is  the  figlise 
St.  Vincent,  dating  from  the  twelfth  to  the 
fourteenth  centuries,  and  containing  the  tombs 
of  many  of  the  Seigneurs  of  Baux. 

There  is,  too,  a  ragged  old  ruin  of  a  Protes- 
tant temple,  with  a  series  of  remarkable  carv- 
ings, and  the  motto  "  Post  tenebras  lux " 
graven  above  its  portal.  The  Palais  des  Porce- 
lets,  now  the  "  communal  "  school,  and  the 
figlise  St.  Claude,  which  has  three  distinct 
architectural  styles  all  plainly  to  be  seen,  com- 
plete the  near-by  sights  and  scenes,  all  of  which 


St.  Remy  de  Provence  55 


are  of  a  weather-worn  grimness,  which  has  its 
charms  in  spite  of  its  sadness  of  aspect. 

Not  far  distant  is  the  Grotte  des  Fees,  known 
in  the  Provencal  tongue  as  "  Lou  Trau  di 
Fado,"  a  great  cavern  some  five  hundred  or 
more  feet  in  length,  the  same  in  which  Mistral 
placed  one  of  the  most  pathetic  scenes  of  ' '  Mi- 
reio."  Of  it  and  its  history,  and  of  the  great 
Christmas  fete  with  its  midnight  climax,  noth- 
ing can  be  said  here ;  it  needs  a  book  to  itself, 
and,  as  the   French  say,  "  c'est  un  chose  a 


voir." 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE   CRAU   AND   THE   CAMARGUE 

When  the  Rhone  enters  that  departement 
of  modern  France  which  bears  the  name 
Bouches-du-Rhone,  it  has  already  accomplished 
eight  hundred  and  seventy  kilometres  of  its 
torrential  course,  and  there  remain  but  eighty- 
five  more  before,  through  the  many  mouths 
of  the  Grand  and  Petit  Rhone,  it  finally  mingles 
the  Alpine  waters  of  its  source  with  those  of 
the  Mediterranean. 

Its  flow  is  enormous  when  compared  with 
the  other  inland  waterways  of  France,  and, 
though  navigable  only  in  a  small  way  com- 
pared to  the  Seine,  the  traffic  on  it  from  the 
Mediterranean  to  Lyons,  by  great  towed  barges 
and  canal-boats,  and  between  Lyons  and  Avi- 
gnon, in  the  summer  months,  by  steamboat,  is, 
after  all,  considerable.  Queer-looking  barges 
and  towboats,  great  powerful  craft  that  will 
tow  anything  that  has  got  an  end  to  it,  as  the 
river  folk  will  tell  you,  and  "  bateaux  longs," 

66 


The  Crau  and  the  Camargue        57 

make  up  the  craft  which  one  sees  as  the  mighty 
river  enters  Provence. 

The  boatmen  of  the  Rhone  still  call  the  right 
bank  Riaume  (Royamne)  and  the  left  Empi 
(Saint  Empire),  the  names  being  a  survival 
of  the  days  when  the  kingdom  of  France  con- 
trolled the  traffic  on  one  side,  and  the  papal 
power,  so  safely  ensconced  for  seventy  years 
at  Avignon,  on  the  other. 

The  fall  of  the  Rhone,  which  is  the  principal 
cause  of  its  rapid  current,  averages  something 
over  six  hundred  millimetres  to  the  kilometre 
until  it  reaches  Avignon,  when,  for  the  rest 
of  its  course,  considerably  under  a  hundred 
kilometres,  the  fall  is  but  twenty  metres,  some- 
thing like  sixty-five  feet. 

This  state  of  affairs  has  given  rise  to  a  re- 
markable alluvial  development,  so  that  the 
plains  of  the  Crau  and  the  Camargue,  and  the 
lowlands  of  the  estuary,  appear  like  "  made 
land  "  to  all  who  have  ever  seen  them.  There 
is  an  appreciable  growth  of  stunted  trees  and 
bushes  and  what  not,  but  the  barrenness  of  the 
Camargue  has  not  sensibly  changed  in  cen- 
turies, and  it  remains  still  not  unlike  a  desert 
patch  of  Far- Western  America. 

Wiry  grass,  and  another  variety  particularly 
suited  to  the  raising  and  grazing  of  live  stock, 


58  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


has  kept  the  region  from  being  one  of  absolute 
poverty;  but,  unless  one  is  interested  in  rais- 
ing little  horses  (who  look  as  though  they  might 
be  related  to  the  broncos  of  the  Western 
plains),  or  beef  or  mutton,  he  will  have  no 
excuse  for  ever  coming  to  the  Camargue  to 
settle. 

These  little  half-savage  horses  of  the  Ca- 
margue are  thought  to  be  the  descendants  of 
those  brought  from  the  Orient  in  ages  past, 
and  they  probably  are,  for  the  Saracens  were 
for  long  masters  of  the  pays. 

The  difference  between  the  Camargue  and 
the  Crau  is  that  the  former  has  an  almost  entire 
absence  of  those  cairns  of  pebbles  which  make 
the  Crau  look  like  a  pagan  cemetery. 

Like  the  horses,  the  cattle  of  the  Camargue 
seem  to  be  a  distinct  and  indigenous  variety, 
with  long  pointed  horns,  and  generally  white  or 
cream  coloured,  like  the  oxen  of  the  Allier. 
When  the  mistral  blows,  these  cattle  of  the 
Camargue,  instead  of  turning  their  backs  upon 
it,  face  it,  calmly  chewing  their  cud.  The 
herdsmen  of  the  cattle  have  a  laborious  occu- 
pation, tracking  and  herding  day  and  night, 
in  much  the  same  manner  as  the  Gauchos  of 
the  Pampas  and  the  cowboys  of  the  Far  West. 
They  resemble  the  toreadors  of  Spain,  too,  and, 


The  Crau  and  the  Camargue 


59 


in  many  of  their  feats,  are  quite  as  skilful  and 
intrepid  as  are  the  Manuels  and  Pedros  of  the 
bull-ring. 
As  one  approaches  the  sea  the  aspect  of  the 


Camargue  changes;  the  hamlets  become  less 
and  less  frequent,  and  outside  of  these  there 
are  few  signs  of  life  except  the  guardians  of 
cattle  and  sheep  which  one  meets  here,  there, 
and  everywhere, 


60  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

The  flat,  monotonous  marsh  is  only  relieved 
by  the  delicate  tints  of  the  sky  and  clouds  over- 
head, and  the  reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun, 
and  the  glitter  of  the  waves  of  the  sea  itself. 

Suddenly,  as  one  reads  in  Mistral's  "  Mi- 
reio,"  Chant  X.,  "  sur  la  mer  lointaine  et  clapo- 
teuse,  comme  un  vaisseau  qui  cingle  vers  le 
rivage,"  one  sees  a  great  church  arising  almost 
alone.    It  is  the  church  of  Les  Saintes  Maries. 

Formerly  the  little  town  of  Les  Saintes 
Maries,  or  village  rather,  for  there  are  but 
some  six  hundred  souls  within  its  confines  to- 
day, was  on  an  island  quite  separated  from 
the  mainland.  Here,  history  tells,  was  an 
ancient  temple  to  Diana,  but  no  ruins  are  left 
to  make  it  a  place  of  pilgrimage  for  worship- 
pers at  pagan  shrines ;  instead  Christians  flock 
here  in  great  numbers,  on  the  24th  of  May  and 
the  22d  of  October  in  each  year,  from  all  over 
Provence  and  Languedoc,  as  they  have  since 
Bible  times,  to  pray  at  the  shrine  of  the  three 
Marys  in  the  fortress-church  of  Les  Saintes 
Maries:  Mary,  the  sister  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
the  mother  of  the  apostles  James  and  John, 
and  Mary  Magdalen. 

The  village  of  Les  Saintes,  as  it  is  commonly 
called,  is  a  sad,  dull  town,  with  no  trees,  no 
gardens,  no  "  Place,"  no  market,  and  no  port; 


The  Crau  and  the  Camargue        61 

nothing  but  one  long,  straight  and  narrow 
street,  with  short  culs-de-sac  leading  from  it, 
and  one  of  the  grandest  and  most  singular 
church  edifices  to  be  seen  in  all  France.  Like 
the  cathedrals  at  Albi  and  Rodez,  it  looks  as 
much  like  a  fortress  as  it  does  a  church,  and 
here  it  has  not  even  the  embellishments  of  a 
later  decorative  period  to  set  off  the  grimness 
of  its  walls. 

As  one  approaches,  the  aspect  of  this  bizarre 
edifice  is  indeed  surprising,  rising  abruptly, 
though  not  to  a  very  imposing  height,  from  the 
flat,  sandy,  marshy  plain  at  its  feet.  The  foun- 
dation of  the  church  here  was  due  to  the  appear- 
ance of  Christianity  among  the  Gauls  at  a  very 
early  period;  but,  like  the  pagan  temple  of  an 
earlier  day,  all  vestiges  of  this  first  Christian 
monument  have  disappeared,  destroyed,  it  is 
said,  by  the  Saracens.  A  noble  —  whose  name 
appears  to  have  been  forgotten  —  built  a  new 
church  here  in  the  tenth  century,  which  took 
the  form  of  a  citadel  as  a  protection  against 
further  piratical  invasion.  At  the  same  time  a 
few  houses  were  built  around  the  haunches  of 
the  fortress-church,  for  the  inhabitants  of  this 
part  of  the  Camargue  were  only  too  glad  to 
avail  themselves  of  the  shelter  and  protection 
which  it  offered. 


62  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

In  a  short  time  a  petite  ville  had  been  created 
and  was  given  the  name  of  Notre  Dame  de  la 
Barque,  in  honour  of  the  arrival  in  Gaul  at  this 
point  of  "  .  .  .  les  saintes  femmes  Marie  Mag- 
deleine,  Marie  Jacobe,  Marie  Salome,  Marthe 
et  son  frere  Lazare,  ainsi  que  de  plusieurs  dis- 
ciples du  Sauveur."  They  were  the  same  who 
had  been  set  adrift  in  an  open  boat  off  the 
shores  of  Judea,  and  who,  without  sails,  oars, 
or  nourishment,  in  some  miraculous  manner, 
had  drifted  here.  The  tradition  has  been  well 
guarded  by  the  religious  and  civic  authorities 
alike,  the  arms  of  the  town  bearing  a  repre- 
sentation of  a  shipwrecked  craft  supported  by 
female  figures  and  the  legend  "  Navis  in  Pe- 
lago." 

On  the  occasion  of  the  fete,  on  the  24th  of 
May,  there  are  to  be  witnessed  many  moving 
scenes  among  the  pilgrims  of  all  ages  who  have 
made  the  journey,  many  of  them  on  foot,  from 
all  over  Provence.  Like  the  pardons  of  Brit- 
tany, the  fete  here  has  much  the  same  signifi- 
cance and  procedure.  There  is  much  proces- 
sioning, and  praying,  and  exhorting,  and  burn- 
ing of  incense  and  of  candles,  and  afterward 
a  defile  to  the  sands  of  the  seashore,  some  two 
kilometres  away,  and  a  "  benediction  des  trou- 
peaux,"  which  means  simply  that  the  blessings 


The  Crau  and  the  Camargue        63 

that  are  so  commonly  bestowed  upon  humanity 
by  the  clergy  are  extended  on  these  occasions 
to  take  in  the  animal  kind  of  the  Camargue 
plain,  on  whom  so  many  of  the  peasants  depend 
for  their  livelihood.  It  seems  a  wise  and 
thoughtful  thing  to  do,  and  smacks  no  more 
of  superstition  than  many  traditional  cus- 
toms. 

After  the  religious  ceremonies  are  over,  the 
"  fete  profane  "  commences,  and  then  there 
are  many  things  done  which  might  well  enough 
be  frowned  down;  bull-baiting,  for  instance. 
The  entire  spectacle  is  unique  in  these  parts, 
and  every  whit  as  interesting  as  the  most  spec- 
tacular pardon  of  Finistere. 

At  the  actual  mouth  of  the  Rhone  is  Port 
St.  Louis,  from  which  the  economists  expect 
great  things  in  the  development  of  mid-France, 
particularly  of  those  cities  which  lie  in  the 
Rhone  valley.  The  idea  is  not  quite  so  chi- 
merical as  that  advanced  in  regard  to  the  pos- 
sibility of  moving  all  the  great  traffic  of  Mar- 
seilles to  the  fitang  de  Berre;  but  it  will  be 
some  years  before  Port  St.  Louis  is  another 
Lorient  or  Le  Havre. 

In  spite  of  this,  Port  St.  Louis  has  grown 
from  a  population  of  eight  hundred  to  that  of 
a  couple  of  thousands  in  a  generation,  which  is 


64  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

an  astonishing  growth  for  a  small  town  in 
France. 

The  aspect  of  the  place  is  not  inspiring.  A 
signal-tower,  a  lighthouse,  a  Hotel  de  Ville,  — 
which  looks  as  though  it  might  be  the  court- 
house of  some  backwoods  community  in  Mis- 
souri, —  and  the  rather  ordinary  houses  which 
shelter  St.  Louis's  two  thousand  souls,  are 
about  all  the  tangible  features  of  the  place 
which  impress  themselves  upon  one  at  first 
glance. 

Besides  this  there  is  a  very  excellent  little 
hotel,  a  veritable  hotel  du  pays,  where  you  will 
get  the  fish  of  the  Mediterranean  as  fresh  as 
the  hour  they  were  caught;  and  the  mouton 
de  la  Camargue,  which  is  the  most  excellent 
mutton  in  all  the  world  (when  cooked  by  a 
Provengal  maUre) ;  potatoes,  of  course,  which 
most  likely  came  in  a  trading  Catalan  bark 
from  Algeria;  and  tomatoes  and  dates  from 
the  same  place ;  to  say  nothing  of  melons  — 
home-grown.  It's  all  very  simple,  but  the  mar- 
vel is  that  such  a  town  in  embryo  as  Port  St. 
Louis  really  is  can  do  it  so  well,  and  for  this 
reason  alone  the  visitor  will,  in  most  cases, 
think  the  journey  from  Aries  worth  making, 
particularly  if  he  does  it  en  auto,  for  the  fifty 
odd  kilometres   are  like   a   sanded,   hardwood 


The  Crau  and  the  Camargue        65 

floor  or  a  cinder  path,  and  the  landscape,  though 
flat,  is  by  no  means  deadly  dull.  Furthermore 
there  is  no  one  to  say  him  nay  if  the  driver 
chooses  to  make  the  journey  en  pleine  vitesse. 

Bordering  upon  the  Camargue,  just  the  other 
side  of  the  Rhone,  is  another  similar  tract: 
the  Crau,  a  great,  pebbly  plain,  supposed  to 
have  come  into  being  many  centuries  before 
the  beginning  of  our  era.  The  hypotheses  as 
to  its  formation  are  numerous,  the  chief  being 
that  it  was  the  work  of  that  mythological  Her- 
cules who  cut  the  Strait  of  Gibraltar  between 
the  Mounts  Calpe  and  Abyle  (this,  be  it  noted, 
is  the  French  version  of  the  legend).  Not  con- 
tent with  this  wonder,  he  turned  the  Durance 
from  its  bed,  as  it  flowed  down  from  the  Alps 
of  Savoie,  and  a  shower  of  stones  fell  from  the 
sky  and  covered  the  land  for  miles  around, 
turning  it  into  a  barren  waste.  For  some  cen- 
turies the  tract  preserved  the  name  of 
"  Champs  Herculeen."  The  reclaiming  of  the 
tract  will  be  a  task  of  a  magnitude  not  far 
below  that  which  brought  it  into  being. 

At  all  events  no  part  of  Gaul  has  as  little 
changed  its  topography  since  ages  past,  and 
the  strange  aspect  of  the  Crau  is  the  marvel 
of  all  who  see  it.  The  pebbles  are  of  all  sizes 
larger  than  a  grain  of  sand,  and  occasionally 


66  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

one  has  been  found  as  big  as  one 's  head.  When 
such  a  treasure  is  discovered,  it  is  put  up  in 
some  conspicuous  place  for  the  native  and  the 
stranger  to  marvel  at. 

Many  other  conjectures  have  been  made  as 
to  the  origin  of  this  strange  land.  Aristotle 
thought  that  an  earthquake  had  pulverized  a 
mountain;  Posidonius,  that  it  was  the  bottom 
of  a  dried-out  lake ;  and  Strabon  that  the  peb- 
bly surface  was  due  to  large  particles  of  rock 
having  been  rolled  about  and  smoothed  by  the 
winds;  but  none  have  the  elements  of  legend 
so  well  defined  as  that  which  attributes  it  as 
the  work  of  Hercules. 

The  Crau,  like  the  Camargue,  is  a  district 
quite  indescribable.  All  around  is  a  lone, 
strange  land,  the  only  living  things  being  the 
flocks  of  sheep  and  the  herds  of  great,  long- 
horned  cattle  which  are  raised  for  local  con- 
sumption and  for  the  bull-ring  at  Aries. 

It  is  indeed  a  weird  and  strange  country,  as 
level  as  the  proverbial  billiard-table,  and  its 
few  inhabitants  are  of  that  sturdy  weather- 
beaten  race  that  knows  not  fear  of  man  or  beast. 
There  is  an  old  saying  that  the  native  of  the 
Crau  and  the  Camargue  must  learn  to  fly  in- 
stead of  fight,  for  there  is  nothing  for  him  to 
put  his  back  against. 


The  Crau  and  the  Camargue        67 

Far  to  the  northward  and  eastward  is  a 
chain  of  mountains,  the  foot-hills  of  the  mighty- 
Alps,  while  on  the  horizon  to  the  south  there 
is  a  vista  of  a  patch  of  blue  sea  which  some- 
where or  other,  not  many  leagues  away,  bor- 
ders upon  fragrant  gardens  and  flourishing  sea- 
ports; but  in  these  pebbly,  sandy  plains  all  is 
level  and  monotonous,  with  only  an  occasional 
oasis  of  trees  and  houses. 

The  Crau  was  never  known  as  a  political 
division,  but  its  topographical  aspect  was  com- 
mented on  by  geographers  like  Strabon,  who 
also  remarked  that  it  was  strewn  with  a  scant 
herbage  which  grew  up  between  its  pebbles 
hardly  sufficient  to  nourish  a  taureau.  Things 
have  not  changed  much  in  all  these  long  years, 
but  there  is,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  nourishment 
for  thousands  of  sheep  and  cattle.  St.  Cesaire, 
Bishop  of  Aries,  also  left  a  written  record  of 
pastures  which  he  owned  in  the  midst  of  a 
campo  lapidio  (presumably  the  Crau),  and 
again,  in  the  tenth  and  eleventh  centuries,  nu- 
merous old  charters  make  mention  of  Posena 
in  Cravo.  All  this  points  to  the  fact  that  the 
topographical  aspect  of  this  barren,  pebbly 
land  —  which  may  or  may  not  be  some  day 
reclaimed  —  has  ever  been  what  it  is  to-day. 
Approximately  twenty-five  thousand  hectares 


G8  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

of  this  pasturage  nourish  some  fifty  thousand 
sheep  in  the  winter  months.  In  the  summer 
these  flocks  of  sheep  migrate  to  Alpine  pas- 
turage, making  the  journey  by  highroad  and 
nibbling  their  nourishment  where  they  find  it. 
It  seems  a  remarkable  trip  to  which  to  subject 
the  docile  creatures,  —  some  five  hundred  kilo- 
metres out  and  back.  They  go  in  flocks  of  two 
or  three  hundred,  being  guarded  by  a  couple 
of  shepherds  called  "  bayles,"  whose  effects 
are  piled  in  saddle-bags  on  donkey-back,  quite 
in  the  same  way  that  the  peasants  of  Albania 
travel.  The  shepherds  of  the  Crau  are  a  very 
good  imitation  of  the  Bedouin  of  the  desert 
in  their  habits  and  their  picturesque  costume. 
Always  with  the  flock  are  found  a  pair  of  those 
discerning  but  nondescript  dogs  known  as 
"  sheep-dogs."  The  doubt  is  cast  upon  the 
legitimacy  of  their  pedigree  from  the  fact  that, 
out  of  some  hundreds  met  with  by  the  author 
on  the  highroads  of  Europe,  no  two  seemed  to 
be  of  the  same  breed.  Almost  any  old  dog  with 
shaggy  hair  seemingly  answered  the  purpose 
well. 

The  custom  of  sending  the  sheep  to  the  moun- 
tains of  Dauphine  for  the  summer  months  still 
goes  on,  but  as  often  as  not  they  are  to-day 
sent  by  train  instead  of  by  road.    The  ancient 


The  Crau  and  the  Camargue        69 


practice  is  apparently  another  reminiscence  of 
the  wandering  flocks  and  herds  of  the  Orient. 

If  it  is  ever  reclaimed,  the  Crau  will  lose 
something  in  picturesqueness  of  aspect,  and  of 
manners  and  customs ;  but  it  will  undoubtedly 
prove  to  the  increased  prosperity  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. The  thing  has  been  well  thought  out, 
though  whether  it  ever  comes  to  maturity  or 
not  is  a  question. 

It  was  Lord  Brougham  —  "  le  fervent  etudi- 
ant  de  la  Provence,"  the  French  call  him  — 
who  said:  "  Herodotus  called  Egypt  a  gift  of 
the  Nile  to  posterity,  but  the  Durance  can  make 
•of  la  Crau  une  petite  Egypte  aux  portes  de 
Marseilles."  From  this  one  gathers  that  the 
region  has  only  to  be  plentifully  watered  to 
become  a  luxuriant  and  productive  river-bot- 
tom. 


CHAPTER   V. 

MARTIGUES:   THE   PROVENgAL  VENICE 

We  arrived  at  Martigues  in  the  early  morn- 
ing hours  affected  by  automobilists,  having 
spent  the  night  a  dozen  miles  or  so  away  in 
the  chateau  of  a  friend.  Our  host  made  an  early 
start  on  a  shooting  expedition,  already  planned 
before  we  put  in  an  appearance,  so  we  took  the 
road  at  the  witching  hour  of  five  a.  m.,  and 
descended  upon  the  Hotel  Chabas  at  Martigues 
before  the  servants  were  up.  Some  one  had 
overslept. 

However,  we  gave  the  great  door  of  the 
stable  a  gentle  shake;  it  opened  slowly,  but 
silently,  and  we  drove  the  automobile  noisily 
inside.  Two  horses  stampeded,  a  dog  barked, 
a  cock  crowed,  and  sleepy-headed  old  Pierre 
appeared,  saying  that  they  had  no  room,  forget- 
ful that  another  day  was  born,  and  that  he  had 
allowed  two  fat  commercial  travellers,  who 
were  to  have  left  by  the  early  train,  to  over- 
sleep. 

70 


0 

Eglise  de  la  Madeleine,  Mariigues 


Martigues:  The  Provengal  Venice    71 

As  there  was  likely  to  be  room  shortly,  we 
convinced  Pierre  (whose  name  was  really  Pie- 
tro,  he  being  an  Italian)  of  the  propriety  of 
making  us  some  coffee,  and  then  had  leisure  to 
realize  that  at  last  we  were  at  Martigues  — 
"  La  Venise  Provengale." 

Martigues  is  a  paradise  for  artists.  So  far 
as  its  canals  and  quays  go,  it  is  Venice  without 
the  pomp  and  glory  of  great  palaces ;  and  the 
life  of  its  fishermen  and  women  is  quite  as  pic- 
turesque as  that  of  the  Giudecca  itself. 

Wonderful  indeed  are  the  sunsets  of  a  May 
evening,  on  Martigues 's  Canal  and  Quai  des 
Bourdigues,  or  from  the  ungainly  bridge  which 
crosses  to  the  Ferrieres  quarter,  with  the  sky- 
scraping  masts  of  the  tartanes  across  the  face 
of  the  sinking  sun  like  prison  bars. 

Great  ungainly  tubs  are  the  boats  of  the 
fisherfolk  of  Martigues  (all  except  the  tartanes, 
which  are  graceful  white-winged  birds).  The 
motor-boat  has  not  come  to  take  the  pictur- 
esqueness  away  from  the  slow-moving  betes, 
which  are  more  like  the  dory  of  the  Gloucester 
fishermen,  without  its  buoyancy,  than  anything 
else  afloat. 

Before  the  town,  though  two  or  three  kilo- 
metres away,  is  the  Mediterranean,  and  back  of 


72  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

it  the  fitang  de  Berre,  known  locally  as  "La 
Petite  Mer  de  Berre." 

Here  is  a  little  corner  of  France  not  yet  over- 
run by  tourists,  and  perhaps  it  never  will  be. 
Hardly  out  of  sight  from  the  beaten  track  of 
tourist  travel  to  the  south  of  France,  and 
within  twenty  odd  miles  of  Marseilles,  it  is  a 
veritable  ' '  darkest  Africa  ' '  to  most  travellers. 
To  be  sure,  French  and  American  artists  know 
it  well,  or  at  least  know  the  lovely  little  triplet 
town  of  Martigues,  through  the  pictures  of 
Ziem  and  Galliardini  and  some  others;  but 
the  seekers  after  the  diversions  of  the  "  Cote 
d'Azur  "  know  it  not,  and  there  are  no  tea- 
rooms and  no  "  biere  anglaise  "  in  the  bars 
or  cafes  of  the  whole  circuit  of  towns  and  vil- 
lages which  surround  this  little  inland  sea. 

The  aspect  of  this  little-known  section  of 
Provence  is  not  wholly  as  soft  and  agreeable 
as,  in  his  mind's  eye,  one  pictures  the  country 
adjacent  to  the  Mediterranean  to  be.  The  hills 
and  the  shores  of  the  ' '  Petite  Mer  ' '  are  sombre 
and  severe  in  outline,  but  not  sad  or  ugly  by 
any  means,  for  there  is  an  almost  tropical 
glamour  over  all,  though  the  olive  and  fig  trees, 
umbrella-pines  and  gnarled,  dwarf  cypresses, 
with  juts  and  crops  of  bare  gray  stone  rising 
up   through   the   thin   soil,   are   quite   in  con- 


Martigues:  The  Provengal  Venice    73 

trast  with  the  palms  and  aloes  of  the  Riviera 
proper. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  "  Petite  Mer,"  or,  to 
give  it  its  official  name,  the  fitang  de  Berre, 
is  a  little  port  which  bears  the  vague  name  of 
Port  de  Bouc. 

Port  de  Bouc  itself  is  on  the  great  Grolfe  de 
Fos,  where  the  sun  sets  in  a  blaze  of  colour 
for  quite  three  hundred  days  in  the  year,  and 
in  a  manner  unapproached  elsewhere  outside  of 
Turner's  landscapes.  Perhaps  it  is  for  this 
reason  that  the  town  has  become  a  sort  of 
watering-place  for  the  people  of  Nimes,  Aries, 
and  Avignon.  There  is  nothing  of  the  conven- 
tional resort  about  it,  however,  and  the  inhab- 
itants of  it,  and  the  neighbouring  town  of  Fos, 
are  mostly  engaged  in  making  bricks,  paper, 
and  salt,  refining  petrol,  and  drying  the  cod- 
fish which  are  landed  at  its  wharves  by  great 
"  trois-mdts,"  which  have  come  in  from  the 
banks  of  Terre  Neuve  during  the  early  winter 
months.  There  is  a  great  ship-building  estab- 
lishment here  which  at  times  gives  employment 
to  as  many  as  a  thousand  men,  and  accordingly 
Port  de  Bouc  and  Fos-sur-Mer,  though  their 
names  are  hardly  known  outside  of  their  own 
neighbourhoods,  form  something  of  a  metrop- 


74  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

olis  to-day,  as  they  did  when  the  latter  was  a 
fortified  cite  romaine. 

The  region  round  about  has  many  of  the 
characteristics  of  the  Crau,  a  land  half-terres- 
trial and  half-aquatic,  formed  by  the  alluvial 
deposits  of  the  mighty  Ehone  and  the  torren- 
tial rivers  of  its  watershed. 

At  Venice  one  finds  superb  marble  palaces, 
and  a  history  of  sovereigns  and  prelates,  and 
much  art  and  architecture  of  an  excellence  and 
grandeur  which  perhaps  exceeds  that  at  any 
other  popular  tourist  point.  Martigues  resem- 
bles Venice  only  as  regards  its  water-sur- 
rounded situation,  its  canal-like  streets  and 
the  general  air  of  Mediterranean  picturesque- 
ness  of  the  life  of  its  fisherfolk  and  seafarers. 

Martigues  has  an  advantage  over  the  ' '  Queen 
of  the  Adriatic  "  in  that  none  of  its  canals  are 
slimy  or  evil-smelling,  and  because  there  is 
an  utter  absence  of  theatrical  effect  and,  what 
is  more  to  the  point,  an  almost  unappreciable 
number  of  tourists. 

It  is  true  that  Galliardini  and  Ziem  have  made 
the  fame  of  Martigues  as  an  "  artists'  sketch- 
ing-ground, ' '  and  as  such  its  reputation  has  been 
wide-spread.  Artists  of  all  nationalities  come 
and  go  in  twos  and  threes  throughout  the  year, 
but  it  has  not  yet  been  overrun  at  any  time  by 


If} 


a 
>>"-, 
^ 


N 


o 

fc 


Martigues:  The  Provengal  Venice    75 

tourists.  None  except  the  Marseillais  seem  to 
have  made  it  a  resort,  and  they  only  come  out 
on  bicycles  or  en  auto  to  eat  "  bouillabaisse  " 
of  a  special  variety  which  has  made  Martigues 
famous. 

Ziem  seems  to  have  been  one  of  the  pioneers 
of  the  new  school,  high-coloured  paintings 
which  are  now  so  greatly  the  vogue.  This  is 
not  saying  that  for  that  reason  they  are  any 
the  less  truthful  representations  of  the  things 
they  are  supposed  to  present;  probably  they 
are  not;  but  if  some  one  would  explain  why 
M.  Ziem  laid  out  an  artificial  pond  in  the  gar- 
dens of  his  house  at  Martigues,  put  up  Vene- 
tian lantern-poles,  and  anchored  a  gondola 
therein,  and  in  another  corner  built  a  mosque, 
or  whatever  it  may  be,  —  a  thing  of  minarets 
and  towers  and  Moorish  arches,  —  it  would 
allay  some  suspicions  which  the  writer  has  re- 
garding "  the  artist's  way  of  working." 

It  does  not  necessarily  mean  that  Ziem  did 
not  go  to  Africa  for  his  Arab  or  Moorish  com- 
positions, or  to  Venice  for  his  Venetian  boat- 
men and  his  palace  backgrounds.  Probably  he 
merely  used  the  properties  as  accessories  in  an 
open-air  studio,  which  is  certainly  as  legitimate 
as  "  working-up  "  one's  pictures  in  a  sky- 
lighted atelier  up  five  flights  of  stairs;    and 


76  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


the  chances  are  this  is  just  where  Ziern's  bril- 
liant colouring  conies  from. 

Martigues  in  its  manners  and  customs  is  un- 
doubtedly one  of  the  most  curious  of  all  the 
coast  towns  of  France.  It  is  truly  a  gay  little 
city,  or  rather  it  is  three  of  them,  known  as 
Les  Martigues,  though  the  sum  total  of  their 
inhabitants  does  not  exceed  six  thousand  souls 
all  told. 

Martigues  at  first  glance  appears  to  be 
mostly  peopled  by  sailors  and  fishermen,  and 
there  is  little  of  the  super-civilization  of  a  great 
metropolis  to  be  seen,  except  that  "  all  the 
world  and  his  wife  "  dines  at  the  fashionable 
hour  of  eight,  and  before,  and  after,  and  at  all 
times,  patronizes  the  Cafe  de  Commerce  to  an 
extent  which  is  the  wonder  of  the  stranger  and 
the  great  profit  of  the  patron. 

No  cafe  in  any  small  town  in  France  is  so 
crowded  at  the  hour  of  the  "  aperitif,"  and  all 
the  frequenters  of  Martigues 's  most  popular 
establishment  have  their  own  special  bottle  of 
whatever  of  the  varnishy  drinks  they  prefer 
from  among  those  which  go  to  make  up  the  list 
of  the  Frenchman's  "  aperitifs."  It  is  most 
remarkable  that  the  cafes  of  Martigues  should 
be  so  well  patronized,  and  they  are  no  mere 
longshore  cabarets,  either,  but  have  walls  of 


Martigues:  The  Provengal  Venice    77 


Martigues 


78  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


plate  glass,  and  as  many  varieties  of  absinthe 
as  you  will  find  in  a  boulevard  resort  in  Paris. 
The  Provencal  historians  state  that  Les  Mar- 
tigues  did  not  exist  as  such  until  the  middle 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  and  that  up  to  that 
time  it  consisted  merely  of  a  few  families  of 
fisherfolk  living  in  huts  upon  the  ruins  of  a 
former  settlement,  which  may  have  been  Ro- 
man, or  perhaps  Greek.  This  first  settlement 
was  on  the  He  St.  Geniez,  which  now  forms  the 
official  quarter  of  the  triple  town. 

Martigues  is  all  but  indescribable,  its  three 
quartiers  are  so  widely  diversified  in  interest 
and  each  so  characteristic  in  the  life  which 
goes  on  within  its  confines,  —  Jonquieres,  with 
its  shady  Cours  and  narrow  cobblestoned 
streets;  the  He,  surrounded  by  its  canals  and 
fishing-boats,  and  Ferrieres,  a  more  or  less 
fastidious  faubourg  backed  up  against  the  hill- 
side, crowned  by  an  old  Capucin  convent. 

For  a  matter  of  fifteen  hundred  years  there 
has  been  communication  between  the  fitang 
de  Berre  and  the  Mediterranean,  and  the  Mar-" 
tigaux  have  ever  been  alive  to  keeping  the 
channel  open.  Through  this  canal  the  fish 
which  give  industry  and  prosperity  to  Mar- 
tigues make  their  way  with  an  almost  inexpli- 
cable regularity.    A  migration  takes  place  from 


Martigues:  The  Provengal  Venice    79 


the  Mediterranean  to  the  Etang  from  February 
to  July,  and  from  July  to  February  they  pass 
in  the  opposite  direction. 

Their  capture  in  deep  water  is  difficult,  and 
the  Martigaux  have  ingeniously  built  narrow 
waterways  ending  in  a  cul-de-sac,  through 
which  the  fish  must  naturally  pass  on  their 
passage  between  the  Etang  and  the  sea.  The 
taking  of  the  fish  under  such  conditions  is  a 
sort  of  automatic  process,  so  efficacious  and 
simple  that  it  would  seem  as  though  the  plan 
might  be  tried  elsewhere. 

Tlie  name  given  to  the  sluices  or  fish  thor- 
oughfares is  hour  digues,  and  the  fishermen  are 
known  as  hour  dig  aliers,  a  title  which  is  not 
known  or  recognized  elsewhere. 

The  hour  digue  fishery  is  a  monopoly,  how- 
ever, and  many  have  been  the  attempts  to 
break  down  the  ' '  vested  interests  ' '  of  the  pro- 
prietors. Originally  these  rights  belonged  to 
the  Archbishop  of  Aries,  and  later  to  the  Sei- 
gneurs de  Gallifet,  Princes  of  Martigues,  when 
the  town  was  made  a  principality  by  Henri  IV. 
It  has  continued  to  be  a  private  enterprise  unto 
to-day,  and  has  been  sanctioned  by  the  courts, 
so  there  appears  no  immediate  probability  of 
the  general  populace  of  Martigues  being  able 
to  participate  in  it. 


80  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

There  is  a  delicate  fancy  evolved  from  the 
connection  of  Martigues 's  three  sister  fau- 
bourgs or  quartiers.  In  the  old  days  each  had 
a  separate  entity  and  government,  and  each 
had  a  flag  of  its  own;  that  of  Jonquieres  was 
blue ;  the  He,  white ;  and  Ferrieres,  red.  There 
was  an  intense  rivalry  between  the  inhabitants 
of  the  three  faubourgs ;  a  rivalry  which  led  to 
the  beating  of  each  other  with  oars  and  fishing- 
tackle,  and  other  boisterous  horse-play  when- 
ever they  met  one  another  in  the  canals  or  on 
the  wharves.  The  warring  factions  of  the  three 
quartiers  of  Martigues,  however,  finally  came 
to  an  understanding  whereby  the  blue,  white, 
and  red  banners  of  Jonquieres,  the  He  and 
Ferrieres  were  united  in  one  general  flag.  The 
adoption  of  the  tricolour  by  the  French  nation 
was  thus  antedated,  curiously  enough,  by  two 
hundred  years,  and  the  tricolour  of  France 
may  be  considered  a  Martigues  institution. 

In  the  Quartier  de  Ferrieres  are  moored  the 
tartanes  and  balancelles,  those  great  white- 
winged,  lateen-rigged  craft  which  are  the  nat- 
ural component  of  a  Mediterranean  scene. 
Those  hailing  from  Martigues  are  the  aristo- 
crats of  their  class,  usually  gaudily  painted 
and  flying  high  at  the  masthead  a  red  and  yel- 


Martigues:  The  Provencal  Venice    81 

low  striped  pennant  distinctive  of  their  home 
port. 

In  the  fish-market  of  Martigues  the  trav- 
eller from  the  north  will  probably  make  his 
first  acquaintance  with  the  tunny-fish  or  thon 
of  the  Mediterranean.  He  is  something  like 
the  tarpon  of  the  Mexican  Gulf,  and  is  a  gamy 
sort  of  a  fellow,  or  would  be  if  one  ever  got 
him  on  the  end  of  a  line,  which,  however,  is  not 
the  manner  of  taking  him.  He  is  caught  by 
the  gills  in  great  nets  of  cord,  as  thick  and 
heavy  as  a  clothes-line,  scores  and  hundreds  at 
a  time,  and  it  takes  the  strength  of  many  boat- 
loads of  men  to  draw  the  nets. 

The  thon  is  the  most  unfishlike  fish  that  one 
ever  cast  eyes  upon.  He  looks  like  a  cross  be- 
tween a  porpoise  and  a  mackerel  in  shape,  and 
is  the  size  of  the  former.  It  is  the  most  beau- 
tifully modelled  fish  imaginable;  round  and 
plump,  with  smoothly  fashioned  head  and  tail, 
it  looks  as  if  it  were  expressly  designed  to  slip 
rapidly  through  the  water,  which  in  reality  it 
does  at  an  astonishing  rate.  Its  proportions 
are  not  graceful  or  delicately  fashioned  at  all; 
they  are  rather  clumsy;  but  it  is  perfectly 
smooth  and  scaleless,  and  looks,  and  feels  too, 
as  if  it  were  made  of  hard  rubber. 

In  short  the  thon  is  the  most  unemotional- 


82  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

looking  thing  in  the  whole  fish  and  animal 
world,  with  no  more  realism  to  it  than  if  it  were 
whittled  out  of  a  log  of  wood  and  covered  with 
stove-polish.  Caught,  killed,  and  cured  (by  be- 
ing cut  into  cubes  and  packed  in  oil  in  little 
tins),  the  thon  forms  a  great  delicacy  among 
the  assortment  of  hors-d'ceuvres  which  the 
Paris  and  Marseilles  restaurant-keepers  put 
before  one. 

One  of  the  great  features  of  Martigues  is  its 
cookery,  its  fish  cookery  in  particular,  for  the 
bouillabaisse  of  Martigues  leads  the  world.  It 
is  far  better  than  that  which  is  supplied  to 
"  stop-over  "  tourists  at  Marseilles,  en  route 
to  Egypt,  the  East,  or  the  Riviera. 

Thackeray  sang  the  praises  of  bouillabaisse 
most  enthusiastically  in  his  "  Ballad  of  the 
Bouillabaisse,"  but  then  he  ate  it  at  a  restau- 
rant "ona  street  in  Paris,"  and  he  knew  not 
the  real  thing  as  Chabas  dishes  it  up  at  Mar- 
tigues's  "  Grand  Hotel." 

Chabas  is  known  for  fifty  miles  around.  He 
is  not  a  Martigaux,  but  comes  from  Cavaillon, 
the  home  of  all  good  cooks,  or  at  least  one  may 
say  unreservedly  that  all  the  people  of  Cavail- 
lon are  good  cooks:  "  les  maitres  de  la  cuisine 
Provengale  "  they  are  known  to  all  bons-vi- 
vants. 


Martigues:  The  Provencal  Venice    83 

Neither  is  madame  a  Martigaux;  she  is  an 
Arlesienne  (and  wears  the  Arlesienne  coiffe  at 
all  times) ;  Aries  is  a  town  as  celebrated  for 
its  fair  women  as  is  Cavaillon  for  its  cooks. 

Together  M.  and  Madame  Chabas  hold  a  big 
daily  reception  in  the  cuisine  of  the  hotel,  for- 
merly the  kitchen  of  an  old  convent.  M.  Paul 
is  a  "  handy  man;  "  he  cooks  easily  and  natu- 
rally, and  carries  on  a  running  conversation 
with  all  who  drop  in  for  a  chat.  Most  cooks  are 
irascible  and  cranky  individuals,  but  not  so  M. 
Paul ;  the  more,  the  merrier  with  him,  and  not 
a  drop  too  much  oil  (or  too  little),  not  a  taste 
too  much  of  garlic,  nor  too  much  saffron  in  the 
bouillabaisse,  nor  too  much  salt  or  pepper  on 
the  roti  or  the  legumes.  It's  all  chance  appar- 
ently with  him,  for  like  all  good  cooks  he  never 
measures  anything,  but  the  wonder  is  that  he 
doesn't  get  rattled  and  forget,  with  the  mixed 
crew  of  pensionnaires  and  neighbours  always 
at  his  elbow,  warming  themselves  before  the 
same  fire  that  heats  his  pots  and  pans  and 
furnishes  the  flame  for  the  great  broche  on 
which  sizzle  the  well-basted  petits  oiseaux. 

Bouillabaisse  is  always  the  plat-du-jour  at 
the  "  Grand  Hotel,"  and  it's  the  most  wonder- 
fully savoury  dish  that  one  can  imagine — as 
Chabas  cooks  it. 


84  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

Outside  a  Provencal  cookery-book  one  would 
hardly  expect  to  find  a  recipe  for  bouillabaisse 
that  one  could  accept  with  confidence,  but  on 
the  other  hand  no  writer  could  possibly  have 
the  temerity  to  write  of  Provence  and  not  have 
his  say  about  the  wonderful  fish  stew  known  to 
lovers  of  good-living  the  world  over.  It  is  more 
or  less  a  risky  proceeding,  but  to  omit  it  alto- 
gether would  be  equally  so,  so  the  attempt  is 
here  made. 

"  La  bouillabaisse,"  of  which  poets  have 
sung,  has  its  variations  and  its  intermittent 
excellencies,  and  sometimes  it  is  better  than 
at  others;  but  always  it  is  a  dish  which  gives 
off  an  aroma  which  is  the  very  spirit  of  Pro- 
vence, an  unmistakable  reminiscence  of  Mar- 
tigues,  where  it  is  at  its  best. 

When  the  bouillabaisse  is  made  according  to 
the  vieilles  regies,  it  is  as  exquisite  a  thing  to 
eat  as  is  to  be  found  among  all  the  famous 
dishes  of  famous  places.  One  goes  to  Bur- 
gundy to  eat  escargots,  to  Rouen  for  caneton, 
and  to  Marguery's  for  soles,  but  he  puts  the 
memory  of  all  these  things  behind  him  and  far 
away  when  he  first  tastes  bouillabaisse  in  the 
place  of  its  birth. 

Here  is  the  recipe  in  its  native  tongue  so 
that  there  may  be  no  mistaking  it : 


Martigues:  The  Provencal  Venice    85 


"  Poisson  de  la  Mediterranee  fraichement 
peche,  avec  les  huiles  vierges  de  la  Provence. 
Thon,  dorade,  mulet,  rouget,  rascasses,  par- 
fumes  par  le  fenouil  et  de  laurier,  telles  sont 
les  bases  de  cette  soupe,  coloree  par  le  safran, 
que  toutes  les  menageres  de  la  littoral  de  Pro- 
vence s'entendent  a  merveille  a  preparer." 

As  before  said,  not  many  tourists  (English  or 
American)  frequent  Martigues,  and  those  who 
do  come  all  have  leanings  toward  art.  Now 
and  then  a  real  "  carryall  and  guide-book 
traveller  ' '  drifts  in,  gets  a  whiff  of  the  mistral, 
(which  often  blows  with  deadly  fury  across  the 
Etang)  and,  thinking  that  it  is  always  like  that, 
leaves  by  the  first  train,  after  having  bought  a 
half-dozen  picture  post-cards  and  eaten  a  bowl 
of  bouillabaisse. 

The  type  exists  elsewhere  in  France,  in  large 
numbers,  in  Normandy  and  Brittany  for  in- 
stance, but  he  is  a  rara  avis  at  Martigues,  and 
only  comes  over  from  his  favourite  tea-drink- 
ing Riviera  resort  (he  tells  you)  "  out  of  curi- 
osity." 

Martigues  is  practically  the  gateway  to  all 
the  attractions  of  the  wonderful  region  lying 
around  the  Etang  de  Berre,  and  of  the  littoral 
between  Marseilles  and  the  mouths  of  the 
Rhone.    It  is  not  very  accessible  by  rail,  how- 


86 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


ever,  and  a  good  hard  walker  could  get  there 
from  Marseilles  almost  as  quickly  on  foot  as 
by  train. 

The  ridiculous  little  train  of  double-decked, 
antiquated  cars,  and  a  still  more  antiquated 
locomotive,  takes  nearly  an  hour  to  make  the 
journey  from  Pas-de-Lanciers.  Some  day  the 
dreaded  mistral  will  blow  this  apology  for  rapid 
transit  off  into  the  sea,  and  then  there  will  come 
an  electric  line,  which  will  make  the  journey 
from  Marseilles  in  less  than  an  hour,  instead 
of  the  three  or  four  that  it  now  takes. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE   ETANG   DE   BERRE 


Martigues  is  the  metropolis  of  the  towns  and 
villages  which  fringe  the  shore  of  the  Etang 
de  Berre,  a  sort  of  an  inland  sea,  with  all  the 
attributes  of  both  a  salt  and  fresh  water  lake. 

Around  Martigues,  in  the  spring-time,  all  is 
verdant  and  full  of  colour,  and  the  air  is  laden 
with  the  odours  of  aromatic  buds  and  blossoms. 
At  this  time,  when  the  sun  has  not  yet  dried 
out  and  yellowed  the  hillsides,  the  spectacle  of 
the  background  panorama  is  most  ravishing. 
Almond,  peach,  and  apricot  trees,  all  covered 
with  a  rosy  snow  of  blossoms,  are  everywhere, 
and  their  like  is  not  to  be  seen  elsewhere,  for  in 
addition  there  is  here  a  contrasting  frame  of 
greenish-gray  olive-trees  and  punctuating  ac- 
cents of  red  and  yellow  wild  flowers  that  is  rem- 
iniscent of  California. 

Surrounding  the  * '  Petite  Mer  de  Berre  ' '  are 
a  half-dozen  of  unspoiled  little  towns  and  vil- 
lages which  are  most  telling  in  their  beauty  and 

87 


88  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

charms:  St.  Mitre,  crowning  a  hill  with  a  pic- 
turesquely roofed  Capucin  convent  for  a  near 
neighbour,  and  with  some  very  substantial  re- 
mains of  its  old  Saracen  walls  and  gates,  is  the 
very  ideal  of  a  mediaeval  hill  town;  Istres, 
with  its  tree-grown  chapel,  its  fortress-like 
church  and  its  ' '  classic  landscape, "  is  as  unlike 
anything  that  one  sees  elsewhere  in  France 
as  could  be  imagined;  while  Miramas,  St. 
Chamas,  and  Berre,  on  the  north  shores  of  the 
Etang,  though  their  names  even  are  not  known 
to  most  travellers,  are  delightful  old  towns 
where  it  is  still  possible  to  live  a  life  unspoiled 
by  twentieth-century  inventions  and  influences. 

If  the  mistral  is  not  blowing,  one  may  make 
the  passage  across  the  Etang,  from  Martigues 
to  Berre,  in  one  of  the  local  craft  known  as  a 
"  bete/'  a  name  which  sounds  significant,  but 
which  really  means  nothing.  If  the  north  wind 
is  blowing,  the  journey  should  be  made  by 
train,  around  the  Etang  via  Marignane.  The 
latter  route  is  cheaper,  and  one  may  be  saved 
an  uncomfortable,  not  to  say  dangerous,  ex- 
perience. 

One  great  and  distinct  feature  of  the  coun- 
tryside within  a  short  radius  of  Marseilles, 
within  which  charmed  circle  lie  Martigues  and 
all   the   surrounding  towns   of  the   Etang   de 


The  Etang  de  Berre  89 

Berre,  are  the  cabanons,  the  modest  villas  (sic) 
of  these  parts,  seen  wherever  there  is  an  out- 
look upon  the  sea  or  a  valleyed  vista.  They 
cling  perilously  to  the  hillsides,  wherever 
enough  level  ground  can  be  found  to  plant 
their  foundations,  and  their  gaudy  colouring 
is  an  ever  present  feature  in  the  landscape  of 
hill  and  vale. 

The  cab  anon  is  really  the  maison  de  cam- 
pagne  of  the  petit  bourgeois  of  the  cities  and 
towns.  It  is  like  nothing  ever  seen  before, 
though  in  the  Var,  east  of  Marseilles,  the 
"  bastide  "  is  somewhat  similar.  In  its  pro- 
portions it  resembles  the  log  cabin  of  the 
Canadian  backwoods  more  than  it  does  the 
East  Indian  bungalow,  though  it  is  hardly  more 
comfortable  or  roomy  than  the  wigwam  of  the 
red  man.  Indeed,  how  could  it  be,  when  it  con- 
sists of  but  four  walls,  forming  a  rectangle  of 
perhaps  a  dozen  feet  square,  and  a  roof  of 
red  tiles? 

If,  like  the  Japanese,  the  inhabitant  of  the 
cabanon  likes  to  carry  his  household  gods  about 
with  him,  why,  then  it  is  quite  another  thing, 
and  there  is  some  justice  in  the  claim  of  its 
occupant  that  he  is  enjoying  life  en  villegia- 
ture. 

"  Le   cabanon:    c'est   unique    et   ajfreux! " 


90  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


said  Taine,  and,  though  he  was  a  great  grum- 
bler when  it  came  to  travel  talk,  and  the  above 
is  an  unfair  criticism  of  a  most  intolerant  kind, 
the  cab  anon  really  is  ludicrous,  though  often 
picturesque. 

The  simple  stone  hut,  with  the  stones  them- 
selves roughly  covered  with  pink  or  blue  stucco, 
sits,  always,  facing  the  south.  Before  it  is  a 
tiny  terrace  and,  since  there  are  often  no  win- 
dows, the  general  housekeeping  is  done  under 
an  awning,  or  a  lean-to,  or  a"  tonnelle." 

It  is  not  a  wholly  unlovely  thing,  a  cabanon, 
but  it  gets  the  full  benefit  of  the  glaring  sun- 
light on  its  crude  outlines,  and,  though  sylvan 
in  its  surroundings,  it  is  seldom  cool  or  shady, 
as  a  country  house,  of  whatever  proportions  or 
dimensions,  ought  to  be. 

Some  figures  concerning  the  fitang  de  Berre 
are  an  inevitable  outcome  of  a  close  observa- 
tion, so  the  following  are  given  and  vouched 
for  as  correct.  It  is  large  enough  to  shelter 
all  the  commercial  fleet  of  the  Mediterranean 
and  all  the  French  navy  as  well.  For  an  area 
of  over  three  thousand  hectares,  there  is  a 
depth  of  water  closely  approximating  forty 
feet.  Between  the  Etang  and  the  Mediterra- 
nean are  the  Montagnes  de  l'Estaque,  which 
for  a  length  of  eight  kilometres  range  in  height 


The  Etang  de  Berre  91 

from  three  hundred  to  fifteen  hundred  feet, 
and  would  form  almost  an  impenetrable  bar- 
rier to  a  fleet  which  might  attack  the  ships  of 
commerce  or  war  which  one  day  may  take  shel- 
ter in  the  fitang  de  Berre.  This,  if  the  naval 
powers-that-be  have  their  way,  will  some  day 
come  to  pass.  All  this  is  a  prophecy,  of  course, 
but  Elisee  Reclus  has  said  that  the  non-utiliza- 
tion of  the  fitang  de  Berre  was  a  scandale 
economique,  which  doubtless  it  is. 

In  spite  of  the  name  "  ^tang,"  the  "  Petite 
Mer  de  Berre  "  is  a  veritable  inland  harbour 
or  rade,  closed  against  all  outside  attack  by 
its  narrow  entrance  through  the  elongated 
fitang  de  Caronte.  That  its  strategic  value  to 
France  is  fully  recognized  is  evident  from  the 
fact  that  frequently  it  is  overrun  by  a  prac- 
tising torpedo-boat  fleet.  What  its  future  may 
be,  and  that  of  the  delightful  little  towns  and 
cities  on  its  shores,  is  not  very  clear.  There  is 
the  possibility  of  making  it  the  chief  harbour 
on  the  south  coast  of  France,  but  hitherto  the 
influences  of  Marseilles  have  been  too  strong; 
and  so  this  vast  basin  is  as  tranquil  and  de- 
serted as  if  it  were  some  inlet  on  the  coast  of 
Borneo,  and,  except  for  the  little  lateen-rigged 
fishing-boats  which  dot  its  surface  day  in  and 
day  out  throughout  the  year,  not  a  mast  of  a 


92  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

goelette  and  not  a  funnel  of  a  steamship  ever 
crosses  its  horizon,  —  except  the  manoeuvring 
torpedo-boats. 

The  Marseillais  know  this  "  Petite  Mer  " 
and  its  curious  border  towns  and  villages  full 
well.  They  come  to  Martigues  to  eat  bouilla- 
baise  of  even  a  more  pungent  variety  than  they 
get  at  home,  and  they  go  to  Marignane  for  la 
chasse,  —  though  it  is  only  "  petit s  oiseaux  " 
and  "  plongeurs  "  that  they  bag,  —  and  they 
go  to  St.  Chamas  and  Berre  for  the  fishing, 
until  the  whole  region  has  become  a  Sunday 
meeting-place  for  the  Marseillais  who  affect 
what  they  call  "  le  sport." 

On  the  western  shore  of  the  "  Petite  Mer," 
on  the  edge  of  the  dry,  pebbly  Crau,  with  a 
background  of  greenish-gray  olive  groves,  is 
Istres,  a  chef -lieu  not  recognized  by  many  geog- 
raphers out  of  France,  and  known  by  still  fewer 
tourists.  Istres  is  in  no  way  a  remarkable 
place,  and  its  inhabitants  live  mostly  on  carp 
taken  from  the  fitang  de  l'Olivier,  monies,  and 
such  poissons  de  mer  as  find  their  way  into  the 
"  Petite  Mer."  Fish  diet  is  not  bad,  but  it 
palls  on  one  if  it  is  too  constant,  and  the  moule 
is  a  poor  substitute  for  the  clam  or  oyster. 
Istres  makes  salt  and  soda  and  not  much  else, 
but  it  is  a  town  as  characteristic  of  the  sur- 


Istres 


The  Etang  de  Berre  93 

rounding  country  as  one  is  likely  to  find.  It 
grew  up  from  a  quasi-Saracen  settlement,  and 
down  through  feudal  times  it  bore  some  resem- 
blance to  what  it  is  to-day,  for  it  numbers  but 
something  like  three  thousand  souls.  There  are 
remains  of  its  old  ramparts  which,  judging 
from  their  aspect,  must  once  have  borne  some 
relationship  to  those  of  Aigues  Mortes. 

Truly  the  landscape  round  about  is  weird 
and  strange,  but  it  is  superb  in  its  very  rude- 
ness, although  no  one  would  have  the  temerity 
to  call  it  magnificent.  There  are  great  hillocks 
of  fossil  shells  which  would  delight  the  geolo- 
gist, and  there  are  "  petits  oiseaux  "  galore 
for  the  sportsman. 

Twilight  seems  to  be  the  time  of  day  when 
all  Istres  's  strange  effects  are  heightened,  — 
as  it  is  on  the  Nile,  —  and  it  will  take  no  great 
stretch  of  the  imagination  to  picture  the  shores 
of  the  fitang  as  the  banks  of  Egypt's  river. 
The  aspect  at  the  close  of  day  is  strange  and 
unforgettable,  with  the  great  plain  of  the  Crau 
stretching  away  indefinitely,  and  the  blue 
"  nappe  "  of  the  filtang  likewise  indefinitely 
hazy  and  tranquil.  In  spite  of  its  lack  of  twen- 
tieth-century comforts,  the  seeker  after  new 
sensations  could  do  worse  than  spend  a  night 
and  a  part  of  a  day  at  Istres 's  Hotel  de  France, 


94  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

and,  if  he  is  a  painter,  he  may  spend  here  a 
week,  a  month,  or  a  lifetime  and  not  get  bored. 

If  one  happens  to  be  at  Istres  on  the  "  Jour 
des  Mortes,"  in  November,  he  may  witness,  in 
the  evening,  in  the  cypress-sheltered  cemetery, 
one  of  the  most  weird  and  eerie  sights  possible 
to  imagine.  When  Odilon,  Abbot  of  Cluny, 
established  the  "  Fete  des  Mortes,"  in  998, 
he  little  knew  the  extent  to  which  it  would  be 
observed.  The  "  Fete  des  Mortes  "  is  one 
thing  in  the  royal  crypt  at  St.  Denis  and  quite 
another  in  the  small  towns  and  villages  up  and 
down  the  length  of  France. 

It  has  been  commonly  thought  that  Bretagne 
was  the  most  religious  and  devout  of  all  the 
ancient  provinces  of  France,  at  least  that  it 
had  become  so,  whatever  may  have  been  its 
status  in  the  past;  but  certainly  the  good  folk 
of  Istres  are  as  devout  and  religious  as  any 
community  extant,  if  the  wonderfully  impres- 
sive chanting  and  illuminating  in  the  graveyard 
by  its  old  tree-grown  chapel  count  for  anything. 
It  is  as  if  the  night  itself  were  hung  with  crepe, 
and  the  hundreds,  nay,  thousands,  of  candles 
set  about  on  the  tombs  and  in  the  trees  heighten 
the  effect  of  solemnity  and  sadness  to  an  inde- 
scribable degree.  In  the  town  the  church-bells 
toll  out  their  doleful  knell,  and  the  still  air  of 


The  Etang  de  Berre  95 

the  night  carries  the  wails  and  chants  of  the 
mourners  far  out  over  the  barren  Crau.  It  is 
the  same  whether  it  rains  or  shines,  or  whether 
the  mistral  blows  or  not.  The  candles,  the 
mourners,  and  the  little  crosses  of  wheat  straws 
—  a  symbol  of  the  Eesurrection  —  are  as  mys- 
tical as  the  rites  of  the  ancients  to  one  who 
has  never  seen  such  a  celebration.  Decidedly, 
if  one  is  in  these  parts  on  the  first  day  of 
November,  he  should  come  to  Istres  for  the 
night,  or  he  will  have  missed  an  exceedingly 
interesting  chapter  from  the  book  of  pleasur- 
able travel. 

Passing  from  Istres  to  the  north  shore  of 
the  Stang,  one  comes  to  Miramas. 

Miramas  is  a  quaint  little  longshore  town 
which  makes  one  think  of  pirates,  Saracens, 
and  Moors,  all  of  whom,  in  days  gone  by,  had 
a  foothold  here,  if  local  traditions  are  to  be 
believed.  Miramas  and  St.  Chamas,  which  is 
the  metropolis  of  the  neighbourhood,  though 
its  population  only  about  equals  that  of  Mira- 
mas, are  twin  towns  which  are  quite  unlike  any- 
thing else  in  these  parts  in  that  they  are  neither 
progressive  nor  somnolent,  but  while  away 
their  time  in  some  inexplicable  fashion,  bathed 
in  the  brilliant  Mediterranean  sunlight  reflected 
from    off    the    surface    of    the    iStang,    which 


96  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

stretches  at  their  feet  and  furnishes  the  sea- 
food on  which  the  inhabitants  mostly  live.  The 
chief  curiosity  of  the  neighbourhood  is  the 
Pont  Flavien,  which  crosses  the  Touloubre 
near  by,  on  the  "Route  d'Aix."  The  structure 
is  a  monument  to  Domnius  Flavius  by  his  exec- 
utors Domnius  Vena  and  Attius  Rufus.  It 
possesses  an  elegance  and  sobriety  which  many 
more  magnificent  works  lack,  and  the  classic 
lines  of  its  superstructure  and  its  great  semi- 
circular arch  in  the  twilight  carry  the  observer 
back  to  the  days  of  mediaevalism. 

At  St.  Chamas  one  is  likely  to  find  his  hotel 
—  regardless  of  which  of  the  two  leading  estab- 
lishments he  patronizes  —  most  unique  in  its 
management,  though  none  the  less  excellent, 
enjoyable,  and  amusing  for  that.  If  by  chance 
he  reaches  the  town  on  a  Saturday  night  and 
comes  upon  a  grand  bal  familier  in  the  dining- 
room,  and  is  himself  compelled  to  eat  his  din- 
ner at  a  small  table  in  the  office,  he  must  not 
quarrel,  but  rest  content  that  he  is  to  be  re- 
warded by  a  sight  which  will  prove  again  that 
it  is  only  the  French  bourgeois  who  really  and 
truly  knows  how  to  enjoy  simple  pleasures. 
Fortnightly,  at  least,  during  the  winter  months 
this  sort  of  thing  takes  place,  and  the  young 
men  and  maidens,  and  young  mothers  and  their 


The  Etang  de  Berre  97 

babies  in  arms,  and  old  folk,  too  old  indeed  to 
swing  partners,  form  a  cordon  around  the  walls 
to  gaze  upon  the  less  timid  ones  who  dance 
with  all  the  abandon  of  a  southern  climate  until 
the  hour  of  eleven,  —  and  then  to  bed.  It  is 
all  very  primitive,  the  orchestra  decidedly  so, 
—  a  violin  and  a  clarionette,  and  always  a  Pro- 
vencal tambourine,  which  is  not  a  tambourine 
at  all,  but  a  drum,  —  but  an  occasional  glimpse 
of  a  beautiful  Arlesienne  will  truly  repay  one 
for  any  discomfort  to  which  he  may  have  been 
put. 

St.  Chamas  is  renowned  through  Provence 
from  the  fact  that  commerce  in  the  olive  first 
came  to  its  great  proportions  through  the  per- 
spicuity of  one  of  the  local  cultivators.  It  was 
he  who  first  had  the  idea  of  preparing  for 
market  the  "  olive-picholine,"  or  green  briny 
olive,  which  figures  so  universally  on  dining- 
tables  throughout  the  world.  In  some  respects 
they  may  not  equal  the  "  queen  olives  "  of 
Spain;  but  the  olives  of  Provence  have  a  deli- 
cacy that  is  far  more  subtle,  and  the  real  en- 
thusiast will  become  so  addicted  to  eating  the 
olive  of  Provence  on  its  native  heath  that  it 
will  become  an  incurable  habit,  like  cigarettes 
or  golf. 

From  St.  Chamas  to  Berre  is  scarce  a  dozen 


98  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

kilometres,  but,  to  the  traveller  from  the  north, 
the  journey  will  be  full  of  marvels  and  sur- 
prises. The  panorama  which  unfolds  itself  at 
every  step  is  of  surpassing  beauty,  though  not 
so  very  grand  or  magnificent. 

"  La  Petite  Mer  "  is  in  full  view,  the  oppo- 
site shore  lost  in  the  refulgence  of  a  reflected 
glow,  as  if  it  were  the  open  sea  itself.  All 
around  its  rim  are  the  rocky  hills,  of  which 
the  highest,  the  Tete  Noire,  rises  to  perhaps 
fifteen  hundred  feet. 

Everywhere  there  are  goats,  and  many  of 
them  great  long-haired  beasts,  the  females  of 
which  give  an  unusually  abundant  supply  of 
milk.  For  a  long  period,  on  the  shores  of  the 
fitang  de  Berre,  there  were  no  cows,  and  the 
inhabitants  depended  for  their  milk-supply 
solely  upon  the  goat,  which  the  French  prop- 
erly enough  call  "  la  vache  du  pauvre."  Like 
the  love  of  the  olive,  that  for  goat's  milk  is 
an  acquired  taste. 

The  first  apparition  of  the  city  of  Berre  is 
charming,  and,  like  Martigues,  it  is  a  sort  of 
a  cross  between  Venice  and  Amsterdam.  Its 
streets,  like  its  canals  and  basins,  are  narrow 
and  winding,  though  for  the  most  part  it 
stretches  itself  out  along  one  slim  thorough- 
fare.   Its  aspect,  apparently,  has  not  changed 


The  Etang  de  Berre  99 


in  thirty  years,  when  Taine  wrote  his  impres- 
sions of  "  ces  rues  d'une  etroitesse  etonnante." 
He  made  a  further  comment  which  does  not 
hold  true  to-day.  He  said  that  there  was  an 
infectious  odour  of  concentrated  humanity, 
with  the  dust  and  mud  of  centuries  still  over 
all.  From  the  very  paradox  of  the  description 
it  is  not  difficult  to  infer  that  he  nodded,  and 
assuredly  Berre  is  not  to-day,  if  it  ever  was, 
sale,  comme  si  depuis  le  commencement  des 
siecles. 

All  the  same  Berre  is  not  a  progressive 
town,  as  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  between  the 
two  last  censuses  its  population  has  fallen  from 
eighteen  hundred  to  fifteen.  However,  its  trade 
has  increased  perceptibly,  thanks  to  the  salt 
works  here,  and  the  tiny  port  gave  a  haven,  in 
the  year  past,  to  a  hundred  craft  averaging  a 
hundred  tons  each. 

Northward  from  the  shores  of  the  Etang  de 
Berre  lies  Salon,  the  most  commercial  of  all 
the  cities  and  towns  between  Aries  and  Mar- 
seilles. Differing  greatly  from  the  lowlands 
lying  round  about,  Salon  is  the  centre  of  a  ver- 
dant garden-spot  reclaimed  by  the  monks  of  St. 
Sauveur  from  an  ancient  marshy  plain.  In 
reality  the  town  owes  its  existence  to  Jeanne 
de  Naples,  who,  forced  to  flee  from  her  king- 


100  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

dom  in  1357,  dreamed  of  establishing  another 
here  in  Provence.  She  actually  did  take  up 
a  portion  of  the  country,  and  the  village  of 
Salon,  through  the  erection  of  a  donjon  and  a 
royal  residence,  took  on  some  of  the  character- 
istics of  a  capital. 

In  spite  of  its  royal  patronage,  the  chief 
deity  of  Salon  was  Nostradamus,  who  was  born 
at  St.  Remy,  of  Jewish  parents,  in  1503.  Des- 
tined for  the  medical  profession,  he  completed 
his  studies  at  Montpellier  and  retired  to  Salon 
to  produce  that  curious  work  called  "  Cen- 
turies," he  having  come  to  believe  that  he  was 
possessed  of  the  spirit  of  prophecy  to  such  an 
extent  that  his  mission  was  really  to  enlighten 
rather  than  cure  the  world. 

Michael  Nostradamus  and  his  prophecies  cre- 
ated some  stir  in  the  world,  for  it  was  a  super- 
stitious age.  The  Medici  was  doing  her  part 
in  the  patronizing  of  astrologers  and  necro- 
mancers, and  promptly  became  a  patron  of  this 
new  seer  of  Provence,  though  never  forswear- 
ing allegiance  to  her  pet  Ruggieri.  It  is  on 
record  that  Catherine  got  a  horoscope  of  the 
lives  of  her  sons  from  Nostradamus  and  showed 
him  great  deference. 

After  this  all  the  world  of  princes  and  sei- 
gneurs nocked  to  the  prophet's  house  at  Salon, 


The  Etang  de  Berre  101 

which  became  a  veritable  shrine,  with  a  living 
deity  to  do  the  honours.  To-day  one  may  see 
his  tomb  in  the  parish  church  of  St.  Laurent. 

The  traffic  in  olives  and  olive-oil  is  very  con- 
siderable at  Salon;  indeed,  one  may  say  that 
it  is  the  centre  of  the  industry  in  all  Provence, 
for  the  olives  known  as  "  Bouches-du-Rhone  " 
are  the  most  sought  for  in  the  French  market, 
and  bring  a  higher  price  than  those  of  the  Var, 
or  of  Spain,  Sicily,  or  Tunis. 

Not  far  from  the  northern  shores  of  the 
Etang  de  Berre,  just  above  Salon,  runs  the 
great  national  highway  from  Paris  to  Antibes, 
branching  of!  to  Marseilles  just  before  reach- 
ing Aix-en-Provence.  The  railway  also  passes 
through  the  heart  of  the  same  region;  but,  in 
spite  of  it  all,  only  few  really  know  the  lovely 
country  round  about. 

The  region  is  historic  ground,  though  in  de- 
tail it  perhaps  has  not  the  general  interest 
of  the  Campagne  d 'Aries  or  Vaucluse;  still  it 
has  an  abounding  interest  for  the  traveller  by 
road,  and  nowhere  will  one  find  a  greater  vari- 
ety of  topography  or  a  pleasanter,  milder  land 
than  in  this  neglected  corner  of  Provence. 

The  roads  here  are  flat,  level  stretches,  five, 
ten,  or  more  kilometres  in  length,  and  are  as 
straight  as  an  arrow.     There  is  a  kilometre 


102 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


stretch  just  west  of  Salon  that  the  Automobile 
Club  de  France  has  adjudged  to  be  perfectly 
level,  and  there  a  road-devouring  monster  of 
200  h.  p.  recently  made  a  world's  record  for 
the  flying  kilometre  of  20%  seconds. 

Before  returning  to  the  shores  of  the  iStang 


5^-c^- 


The  Kilometre  West  nf  Salon 


de  Berre,  one  should  make  a  detour  to  Roque- 
favour  and  Ventabren.  One  finds  a  complete 
change  of  scene  and  colouring,  quite  another 
atmosphere  in  fact,  and  yet  it  is  only  a  scant 
ten  kilometres  off  the  route. 

The  chateau  and  aqueduct  of  Roquefavour 
are  each  a  sermon  in  stone,  the  latter  one  of 
those  engineering  feats  of  modern  times,  which, 
unlike  wire-rope  bridges  and  sky-scrapers,  have 


The  Etang  de  Berre  103 

something  of  the  elements  of  beanty  in  their 
make-up. 

Near  by,  on  a  rocky  promontory,  with  a  base 
so  firm  that  all  the  winds  of  the  four  quarters 
could  never  shake  its  foundations,  is  the  sig- 
nificantly named  village  of  Ventabren.  All 
about  are  the  ruins  of  the  magnificence  which 
had  existed  before,  somewhat  reminiscent  of 
Les  Baux,  while  beneath  flows  the  river  Arc, 
the  alluvial  soil  of  whose  bed  has  proved  so 
advantageous  to  the  vine-culture  hereabouts. 

The  aqueduct  of  Roquefavour  has  not  had 
the  benefit  of  six  centuries  of  aging  possessed 
by  that  similar  work  near  Nimes,  the  Pont  du 
Gard  of  Agrippa;  but  it  harmonizes  wonder- 
fully with  the  surrounding  landscape,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  it  is  only  a  mid-nineteenth- 
century  work,  built  to  conduct  water  to  Mar- 
seilles from  far  up  the  valley  of  the  Durance. 
Overhead,  and  beneath  the  ground,  for  122 
kilometres,  runs  the  canal  until  here,  where 
it  crosses  the  Arc,  the  monumental  viaduct  has 
proved  to  be  a  more  stupendous  work  than  any 
undertaken  by  the  Romans,  who,  supposedly, 
were  the  master  builders  of  aqueducts. 

On  returning  to  the  Stang,  and  after  passing 
several  perilously  perched  hillside  villages,  one 
comes  suddenly  to  Marignane,  a  name  which  is 


104  Eambles  on  the  Riviera 

little  known  or  recognized.  The  town  is  very 
contracted,  and  it  is  wofully  lacking  in  every 
modern  convenience,  except  the  electric  light, 
which,  curiously  enough,  its  more  opulent 
neighbour,  Martigues,  lacks. 

Marignane  preserves  traces  of  the  Roman 
occupation,  though  what  its  status  among  the 
cities  of  the  ancient  Provincia  may  have  been 
will  perhaps  ever  remain  in  doubt.  Princi- 
pally it  will  be  loved  for  its  chateau  of  Renais- 
sance times,  which  belonged  to  Mirabeau's 
mother,  who  was  of  the  seigneurial  family  of 
Marignane.  It  is  not  a  remarkably  beautiful 
building,  but  it  is  a  satisfactory  one  in  every 
way,  and,  though  now  in  a  state  of  decrepitude, 
it  is  a  monumental  reminder  of  other  days  and 
other  ways.  The  Hotel  de  Ville  occupies  the  old 
chateau,  but  nothing  very  lively  ever  takes 
place  there  except  the  civil  marriages  of  the 
commune,  participants  in  which  would,  it  seems, 
rather  have  the  knot  tied  there  than  in  any 
other  similar  edifice.  Only  the  facade  misses 
being  a  ruin,  but  all  parts  preserve  the  ele- 
gance —  in  suggestion,  at  least  —  of  its  former 
glory,  and  the  great  state  chamber  has  been 
well  preserved  and  cared  for. 

Formerly  the  town  had  the  usual  fortifica- 
tions   with    which    important   mediaeval    cities 


The  Etang  de  Berre  105 

were  surrounded,  but  they  have  now  disap- 
peared, and  one  will  have  to  turn  his  steps  to 
Salon  for  any  ruins  that  suggest  feudalism. 

There  has  ever  been  a  contention  between 
archaeologists  and  historians  as  to  the  exact 
location  of  the  Maritima  of  Pliny  and  Ptolemy, 
a  designation  given  to  a  colony  of  Avatici,  in 
the  days  when  the  sea  power  of  the  Greeks  and 
Romans  seemed  likely  never  to  wane.  The 
question  is  still  unsettled  and  crops  up  again 
and  again. 

Marignane,  on  the  shores  of  the  Etang  de 
Bolmon,  —  an  offshoot  of  that  wonderfully  fas- 
cinating Etang  de  Berre,  —  was,  perhaps,  the 
ancient  Maritima  Colonia  Avaticorum,  and 
Martigues,  its  grander  and  better  known  neigh- 
bour, may  have  borne  the  title  of  Maritima 
Colonia  Anatiliorum.  As  a  mere  matter  of 
title,  it  is  a  fine  distinction  anyway,  but  every- 
thing points  to  the  fact  that  the  ancients  had 
a  great  port  somewhere  on  the  shores  of  this 
landlocked  Etang.  Just  where  this  may  have 
been,  and  what  its  name  was,  is  not  so  clear 
to-day,  for  there  is  scarcely  more  than  a  dozen 
feet  of  water  in  the  shallow  parts  of  the  Etang, 
and  this  fact  of  itself  would  seem  to  preclude 
that  it  was  ever  a  rival  of  the  great  ports  of 
the  Mediterranean  of  other  days.     The  specu- 


106  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

lation,  at  any  rate,  will  give  food  for  thought 
to  any  who  are  interested,  and  whether  this 
same  Stang  ever  becomes,  as  is  prophesied,  a 
great  series  of  ports  and  docks  which  will  more 
than  rival  Marseilles,  does  not  matter  in  the 
least.  To-day  the  Etang  de  Berre  is  quite  un- 
spoiled in  all  the  charm  and  novelty  of  its 
environment  and  of  the  little  salt-water  towns 
which  surround  it. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  SEASCAPE:   FROM   THE   RHONE   TO   MARSEILLES 

The  Bouches-du-Rhone,  like  the  delta  of  the 
Mississippi,  is  a  great  sprawling  area  of  sand- 
bars and  currents  of  brackish  water.  For 
miles  in  any  direction,  as  the  eye  turns,  it  is 
as  if  a  bit  of  water-logged  Holland  had  been 
transported  to  the  Mediterranean,  with  sand- 
dunes  and  a  scrubby  growth  of  furze  as  the 
only  recognizable  characteristics. 

As  a  great  and  useful  waterway,  the  Rhone 
falls  conspicuously  from  the  position  which  it 
might  have  occupied  had  nature  given  it  a  more 
regular  and  dependable  flow  of  water. 

The  canals  from  Beaucaire  through  the  Ca- 
margue  and  from  Aries  to  the  Golfe  de  Fos 
are  the  only  things  that  make  possible  water 
communication  between  the  Mediterranean  and 
the  towns  and  cities  of  the  mid-Rhone  valley. 

The  Golfe  des  Lions,  or  the  Golfe  de  Lyon, 

as  it  is  frequently  called,  is  the  great  bay  lying 

between  the  coast  of  the  Narbonnaise  and  the 

107 


108 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


From  the  Rhone  to  Marseilles     109 

headlands  just  to  the  eastward  of  Marseilles. 
It  is  a  tempestuous  body  of  water,  when  the 
north  wind  blows,  and  travellers  by  sea,  in  and 
out  of  Marseilles,  have  learned  to  dread  it  as 
if  it  were  the  Bay  of  Biscay  itself. 

Just  eastward  of  the  mouths  of  the  Rhone 
is  a  smaller  indentation  in  the  coast-line,  the 
Golfe  de  Fos,  known  to  mariners  as  being  the 
best  anchorage  between  Marseilles  and  the 
Bouches-du-Rhone,  and  which  has  received  a 
local  name  of  "  Anse  du  Repos  "  and  "  Mouil- 
lage  d'Aigues  douces." 

Surrounding  the  Golfe  de  Fos,  and  indeed 
west  of  the  Rhone,  are  numerous  ponds  and 
marshy  bays,  similar  to  the  great  inland  sea 
of  Berre.  The  Golfe  de  Fos  is  generally 
thought  to  be  the  ancient  Mer  Avatique,  one  of 
whose  salty  arms  is  known  as  "  l'Estomac," 
probably  a  corruption  of  an  old  Provencal  ex- 
pression, Ion  stoma,  or  perhaps  because  it  is 
the  site  of  a  colony  of  the  Marseillais  known 
as  Stoma  Limne,  which  was  established  here 
a  century  before  the  beginning  of  the  Christian 
era. 

Later  the  Senate  of  Rome  designated  Marius 
as  governor  of  the  region,  and  he  came  with 
his  legions  and  established  himself  here  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Rhone.    He  even  attempted  the 


110  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

then  gigantic  work  of  cutting  a  free  waterway 
from  Aries  to  the  sea,  and  thus  arose  —  on  this 
spot,  beyond  a  doubt,  if  circumstantial  history 
counts  for  anything  —  the  Port  des  Fosses 
Mariennes  which  for  a  long  time  has  been  so 
great  a  speculation  to  French  historians. 

The  port  became  the  faubourg  maritime 
of  Aries,  as  did  the  Piraeus  for  Athens.  It 
was  at  this  time  that  the  name  of  Lion,  or  Lyon, 
was  given  to  the  great  bay  which  washes  the 
coast  of  the  ancient  Narbonuaise.  It  grew  up 
from  the  fact  that  the  Arlesien  shipping  was 
ever  in  evidence  on  its  waters,  bearing  aloft 
their  flags  and  banners  "  blazoned  with  lions." 
As  the  number  of  these  ships  of  Aries  was 
great,  the  name  came  gradually  to  be  adopted. 
The  explanation  seems  plausible,  and  the  count- 
less thousands  who  now  traverse  its  waters  in 
great  steamships,  coming  and  going  from  Mar- 
seilles, need  no  longer  speculate  as  to  the  origin 
of  the  name. 

The  disappearance  of  the  Roman  Empire 
caused  the  decadence  of  the  Fossis  Marianis, 
as  the  name  had  been  modified,  and  the  inva- 
sion of  the  barbarians  drove  the  inhabitants 
to  the  neighbouring  heights,  which  they  forti- 
fied. This  Castrum  de  Fossis  became  in  time 
the  Chateau  des  Fosses  Mariennes,  and  what 


From  the  Rhone  to  Marseilles     111 

is  left  of  it,  or  at  least  the  site,  is  so  known 
to-day.  In  the  middle  ages  the  town  became 
a  Marqnisat  belonging  to  the  Vicomtes  de  Mar- 
seille, but  in  1393  it  bought  its  freedom  and 
became  a  communaute. 

To-day  the  little  town  of  Fos-sur-Mer  is  a 
queer  mixture  of  the  old  and  new,  of  indolence 


%^^m&^WJti<j>>;-'»Mi*f* 


fas-  SUr~  JU*r 


•»"   *0»*    ,JJ.-»w. 


Fos-sur-Mer 


and  industry;  but  the  complex  sky-line  of  its 
old  chateau,  seen  over  the  marshes,  is  as  fairy- 
like and  mediaeval  as  old  Carcassonne  itself; 
which  is  saying  the  most  that  can  be  said  of  a 
crumbling  old  walled  town.  It  is  not  so  grand, 
nor  indeed  so  well  preserved,  as  Carcassonne, 
but  it  has  all  the  characteristics,  if  in  a  lesser 
degree. 


112  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

Fos  lias  a  wonderful  industry  in  the  manu- 
facture of  paper  and  cellulose  from  the  alfa, 
a  textile  plant  which  grows  in  abundance  on 
the  high  plateaux  of  Algeria.  Added,  in  cer- 
tain proportions,  to  the  cane  or  bamboo  of 
Provence,  it  produces  a  most  excellent  fibre  for 
the  fabrication  of  high-grade  papers;  in  a 
measure  a  very  good  imitation  of  the  fine  vel- 
lum and  parchment  papers  of  Japan  and  China. 

From  Fos  it  is  but  a  step  to  Port  de  Bouc, 
the  more  modern  neighbour,  and  the  gateway 
by  which  the  products  of  the  Fos  of  to-day 
reach  the  outside  world. 

Here,  in  miniature,  are  all  the  indications 
of  a  world-port.  It  is  a  picturesque  waterside 
town,  the  tall  chimneys  of  its  factories,  the 
masts  and  funnels  of  the  ships  at  its  quays, 
and  the  tall  spars  of  the  lateen-rigged  "  tar- 
tanes,"  all  producing  a  wonderfully  serrated 
sky-line  of  the  kind  loved  by  artists;  but,  oh! 
so  difficult  for  them  to  reproduce  satisfactorily. 
Besides  these  features  there  is  also  the  near-by 
fort  and  the  lighthouse  which  gleams  forth  a 
sailor's  warning  a  dozen  miles  out  to  sea.  The 
hum  of  industry  and  the  generally  imposing 
aspect  of  the  port  leads  one  to  suppose,  from 
a  distance,  that  the  town  is  vastly  more  popu- 
lous than  it  really  is;   but  for  all  that  it  is  an 


Chateauneuj 


From  the  Rhone  to  Marseille       113 


interesting  note  in  one's  itinerary  along  Medi- 
terranean shores. 

The  whole  range  of  hills  south  of  Martigues, 
and  bordering  upon  the  Mediterranean  itself, 
is  a  round  of  tiny  hill  towns,  which,  like  St. 
Pierre  and  Chateauneuf,  dot  the  landscape 
with  their  spires  of  wrought  iron  surmounting 
the  belfries  of  their  yellow  stone  churches  and 
presenting  a  grouping  quite  foreign  to  most 
things  seen  in  France.  They  are  not  Italian 
and  they  are  not  Spanish,  neither  are  they  any 
distinct  French  type;  hence  they  can  only  be 
classed  as  exotics  which  have  taken  root  from 
some  previous  importation. 

One's  itinerary  along  the  Provencal  coast, 
from  the  mouths  of  the  Rhone  toward  Mar- 
seilles, comes  abruptly  to  a  stop  when  he 
reaches  the  height  of  Cap  Couronne,  which 
rises  just  east  of  the  entrance  to  the  fitang  de 
Caronte,  and  sees  that  wonderful  panorama 
of  the  Golfe  de  Lyon,  with  the  distant  pall  of 
smoky  industry  at  its  extreme  eastern  horizon. 

The  name  Couronne  is  certainly  apropos  of 
this  dominant  headland,  under  whose  flanks  are 
innumerable  natural  shelters  and  anchorages. 
The  application  of  the  name  has  a  more  prac- 
tical side,  however.  In  Provencal  the  word 
"  cairon  "  means  limestone,  and,  since  there 


114 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


Roadside  Chapel,  St.  Pierre 


From  the  Rhone  to  Marseilles     115 

have  been  for  ages  past  great  limestone  quar- 
ries here,  it  is  not  difficult  to  recognize  the 
origin  of  the  name. 

The  dusts  of  the  great  routes  of  travel  are 
left  behind  as  one  climbs  the  gentle  slope  of 
the  Estaque  range  from  Martigues.  After 
having  passed  the  rock-cut  village  of  St.  Pierre 
and  ascended  the  incline  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  valley,  he  finds  himself  on  the  height 
of  Cap  Couronne,  and  the  Mediterranean  itself 
bursts  all  at  once  upon  his  gaze,  in  much  the 
same  fashion  as  the  dawn  comes  up  at  Man- 
dalay. 

Cap  Couronne  plunges  abruptly  at  one's 
feet,  and  the  shadowy  outlines  of  the  distant 
flat  shores  of  the  Bouches-du-Rhone  lie  to  the 
westward,  while  directly  east  is  the  most  won- 
derfully light  rose  and  purple  promontory  that 
one  may  see  outside  of  Capri  and  the  Bay  of 
Naples.  It  is  the  eastern  side  of  Marseilles, 
which  itself,  with  its  spouting  chimneys,  ac- 
cents the  brilliant  landscape  in  a  manner  which, 
if  not  ideal,  is,  at  least,  not  offensive. 

Who  among  our  modern  artists  could  do  this 
view  justice?  The  blue  of  the  cloudless  sky; 
the  ultramarine  waves;  and  the  shabby  sel- 
vage of  smoke,  all  blending  so  marvellously 
with  the  pink  and  purple  of  the  setting  sun. 


116  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

Turner  might  have  done  it  in  times  past ;  doubt- 
less could  have  done  so ;  and  Whistler  —  wait- 
ing until  a  little  later  in  the  evening  —  would 
have  made  a  symphony  of  it;  but  any  living 
artist,  called  to  mind  at  the  moment,  would 
have  bungled  it  sadly.  It  is  one  of  those  wide- 
open  seascapes  which  the  art-lover  must  see 
au  naturel  in  order  to  worship.  Nothing  on  the 
Riviera  —  that  cinematograph  of  magic  pano- 
ramas—  can  equal  or  surpass  the  late  after- 
noon view  from  Cap  Couronne. 

Before  one  descends  upon  Marseilles  from 
the  Estaque,  he  comes  upon  the  little  village 
of  Carry. 

Of  the  antiquity  of  the  little  fishing-port  there 
is  no  question,  but  it  is  doubtful  if  the  hordes 
of  Marseillais  who  come  here  in  summer,  to 
eat  bouillabaisse  on  the  verandas  of  its  restau- 
rants and  hotels,  know,  or  care,  anything  of 
this. 

As  the  Incarrus  Posito,  it  had  an  existence 
long  before  bouillabaisse  was  ever  thought  of, 
at  least  by  its  present  name.  It  was  one  of 
the  advance-posts  of  the  Massaliotes  when 
Marseilles  was  the  Massalia  of  the  Greeks. 

Carry,  with  its  port,  and  the  chateau  of  M. 
Philippe  Jourde,  a  Frenchman  who  won  his 
fortune  on  the  field  of  commerce  in  the  United 


From  the  Rhone  to  Marseilles     117 


States,  is  delightful,  but  it  is  not  usually  ac- 
counted one  of  the  sights  that  is  worth  the 
while  of  the  Eiviera  tourist  to  go  out  of  his 
way  to  see. 

Within  the  grounds  of  the  chateau  have  been 
brought  to  light  within  recent  years  many 
monumental  remains ;  one  bearing  the  two  fol- 
lowing inscriptions  bespeaks  an  antiquity  con- 
temporary with  the  early  years  of  the  build- 
ing up  of  Marseilles: 


C.   POMPEI 
PLANTEA 


AES 

AVC 

C    R   IANCO 

IP 

CAIII 

EXCL 

INIPSNIS 

SEVIR 

AUGUSTALIS 

'• 

8. 

D. 

Besides  this,  marbles,  mosaics,  pottery,  coins, 
and  even  precious  metals  have  been  found. 
Carry  may  then  have  been  something  more 
than  a  fortress  outpost,  or  a  fishing- village ; 
it  may  have  been  a  Pompeii. 

Almost  at  one's  elbow  is  Marseilles  itself, 
brilliant  and  burning  with  the  feverish  energies 
of  a  great  mart  of  trade,  and  bathed  in  the 
dark  blue  of  the  Mediterranean  and  the  lighter 


118  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

blue  of  the  skies.  Beyond  are  the  isles  of  the 
bay  and  the  rocky  promontories  to  the  east- 
ward, while  to  the  northeast  are  the  heights 
of  the  Var  and  the  Alpes-Maritimes.  Truly 
the  kaleidoscopic  first  view  of  the  "  Porte  de 
V Orient  "  fully  justifies  any  rhapsodies.  There 
is  but  one  other  view  in  all  France  at  all  ap- 
proaching it  in  splendour,  —  that  of  Rouen 
from  the  height  of  Bon  Secours,  —  and  that, 
in  effect,  is  quite  different. 

One's  approach  to  Marseilles  by  rail  from 
the  north  is  equally  a  reminder  of  a  theatrical 
transformation  scene,  such  as  one  has  when  he 
reaches  Bouen  or  Cologne ;  a  sudden  unfolding 
of  new  and  strange  beauties  of  prospect,  which 
are  nothing  if  not  startling.  The  railway  runs 
for  many  minutes  in  the  obscurity  of  the  Tun- 
nel de  la  Nerthe  before  it  finally  debouches  on 
the  southern  gorges  of  the  Estaque  Bange,  the 
same  which  flanks  the  coast  all  the  way  from 
Marseilles  to  the  entrance  to  the  Etang  de 
Berre. 

Pines  and  boursailles  and  rocky  hillocks,  set 
out  here  and  there  with  olive-trees,  form  the  im- 
mediate foreground,  while  that  distant  horizon 
of  blue,  which  is  everywhere  along  the  Medi- 
terranean, forms  a  background  which  is  softer 
and  more  sympathetic  than  that  of  any  other 


From  the  Rhone  to  Marseilles     119 

known  body  of  water,  salt  or  fresh,  great  or 
small. 

At  the  base  of  the  first  foot-hills  of  the 
Estaque  lies  Marseilles,  a  city  enormously  alive 
with  industry  and  all  the  cosmopolitan  life  of 
one  of  the  most  important  —  if  not  the  great- 
est—  of  all  world-ports.  Here  human  indus- 
try has  transformed  a  naturally  beautiful  and 
commodious  situation  into  a  mighty  hive  of 
affairs,  where  its  long,  straight  streets  only 
end  at  the  water's  edge,  and  the  basins  and 
docks  are  simply  great  rectangular  gulfs,  seem- 
ingly endless  in  their  immensity.  Great  tow- 
ering chimney-stacks  of  brick  punctuate  the 
landscape  here  and  there,  and  the  masts  of 
vessels  and  the  funnels  of  steamships  carry 
still  further  the  idea  of  energetic  restlessness. 

Offshore  are  the  innumerable  rocky  islets, 
seemingly  merely  moored  in  the  sea,  around 
which  skim  myriads  of  sailing-vessels  and 
steamers,  quite  in  the  ceaseless  manner  of  cine- 
matograph pictures,  while  an  occasional  black 
cloud  of  smoke  indicates  the  presence  of  a  great 
liner  from  the  Far  East,  making  port  with  its 
cargo  of  humanity  and  the  silks  and  spices  of 
the  Orient. 

The  view  of  the  waterside  and  offshore  Mar- 
seilles,   with    the    harmonious    Mediterranean 


120  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

blue  blending  into  all,  is  transplendent  in  its 
loveliness.  Nothing  is  green  or  gray,  as  it  is 
at  Bordeaux,  or  Nantes,  or  Le  Havre;  and 
none  of  the  fog  or  smoke  of  the  great  cities 
of  mid-France,  of  Paris,  of  Lyons,  or  of  St. 
Etienne  is  here  visible;  instead  all  is  brilliant 
—  garishly  brilliant,  if  you  like,  but  still  har- 
moniously so  —  in  a  blend  that  compels  admira- 
tion. 

Marseilles  is  a  great  conglomerate  city  made 
up  by  the  intermingling  of  the  neighbouring 
villages,  bourgs,  and  petit  es  villes  until  they 
have  quite  lost  their  own  identity  in  the  com- 
munion of  the  greater. 

Some  day  the  Rhone  will  empty  itself  into 
the  great  Bassins  of  the  port  of  Marseilles; 
that  is,  if  the  moving  of  the  traffic  of  the  port 
to  the  Etang  de  Berre  at  Martigues  and  Berre 
does  not  take  place,  which  is  unlikely.  When 
the  chalands  and  peniches  du  nord  can  come 
from  Le  Havre,  from  Rouen,  from  Antwerp, 
and  from  Paris  direct  to  the  quays  of  Mar- 
seilles, by  way  of  the  canals  and  the  Rhone,  an 
additional  prosperity  will  have  come  to  this 
greatest  of  all  Mediterranean  ports.  No  more 
will  it  be  a  struggle  with  Genoa  and  Triest; 
and  Marseilles  will  grow  still  grander  and 
more  lively  and  cosmopolitan. 


From  the  Rhone  to  Marseilles     121 

In  her  efforts  in  this  direction  Marseilles  has 
found  an  ardent  ally  in  Lyons,  whose  Chamber 
of  Commerce  has  ever  lent  its  aid  toward  this 
end,  burying  all  jealousies  as  to  which  shall 
become  the  second  city  of  France.  Lyons,  be 
it  understood,  great  and  industrious  as  it  is, 
is  at  a  distinct  disadvantage  in  transportation 
matters  by  reason  of  its  geographical  position, 
although  it  already  possesses  at  Port  St.  Louis, 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Grand  Rhone,  a  port  of 
transhipment  for  all  cumbersome  goods  which 
proceed  by  way  of  the  towed  convoys  of  the 
Rhone  canals.  With  direct  communication  with 
Marseilles  one  handling  will  be  saved  and  much 
money,  hence  all  Lyonnais  pray  for  this  new 
state  of  affairs  to  be  speedily  brought  about. 
The  day  when  the  chalands  of  the  Seine  can 
meet  the  nav aires  of  La  Joliette,  Marseilles  will 
surpass  Antwerp  and  Hamburg,  say  the  Mar- 
seillais. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MARSEILLES  —  COSMOPOLIS 

Marseilles  has  more  than  once  been  called 
the  Babylon  of  the  south,  and  with  truth,  for 
such  a  babel  of  many  tongues  is  to  be  heard 
in  no  Latin  or  Teuton  city  in  the  known  world. 

At  Marseilles  all  is  tumultuous  and  gay,  and 
the  Cannebiere  is  the  gayest  of  all.  Mery  per- 
petuated its  fame,  or  at  any  rate  spread  it  far 
and  wide,  when  he  said,  "  Si  Paris  avait  une 
Cannebiere,  ce  serait  un  petit  Marseille."  It 
is  not  a  long  thoroughfare,  this  Cannebiere,  in 
spite  of  its  extension  in  the  Rue  de  Noailles, 
but  its  animation  and  its  gaiety  give  it  an 
incontestable  air  of  grandeur  which  many  more 
pretentious  thoroughfares  entirely  lack.  Lyons 
has  more  beautiful  streets,  and  Paris  has  ave- 
nues and  boulevards  more  densely  thronged, 
but  the  Cannebiere  has  a  character  that  is  all 
its  own,  and  a  reputation  for  worldliness  which 
it  lives  up  to  in  every  particular.  In  reality 
the   Cannebiere  is  Marseilles,  the  palpitating 

122 


Marseilles  —  Cosmopolis  123 

heart  of  the  second  city  of  France.  One  does 
not  need  to  go  far  away,  however,  before  he 
comes  to  the  tranquillity  and  convention  of  the 
average  provincial  capital,  and  for  this  reason 
this  great  street  of  luxurious  shops  and  grand 
hotels  is  the  more  remarkable,  and  the  contrast 
the  more  absolute.  By  ten  o'clock  the  whole 
city  of  convention  sleeps,  but  the  Cannebiere 
and  its  cafes  are  as  full  of  light  and  noise  as 
ever,  and  remain  so  until  one  or  two  in  the 
morning. 

Not  only  does  the  Cannebiere  captivate  the 
stranger,  but  each  of  the  various  quartiers  does 
the  same,  until  one  realizes  that  the  life  of 
Marseilles  unrolls  itself  as  does  no  other  in 
provincial  France.  The  arts,  science,  industry, 
commerce,  and  the  shipping  all  have  their  sep- 
arate and  distinct  quarters,  where  the  life  of 
their  own  affairs  is  ceaseless  and  brings  a  con- 
tent which  only  comes  from  industry.  Twenty- 
five  centuries  have  rolled  by  since  the  founda- 
tions of  the  present  prosperity  of  Marseilles 
were  laid,  and  nowhere  has  the  star  of  progress 
burned  more  brilliantly. 

Fortunate  among  all  other  great  cities,  Mar- 
seilles has  preserved  all  the  essential  elements 
of  its  former  glory  and  opulence,  and  even 
added  to  them  with  the  advance  of  ages,  re- 


124  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


maining  meanwhile  encore  jeune,  souriante,  ro- 
buste,  comme  si  le  temps  ne  pouvait  rien  sur 
sa  force  sereine,  sur  sa  triomphante  beaute." 

Save  the  Byzance  of  antiquity,  no  seaport 
of  history  has  enjoyed  a  role  so  brilliant  or 
so  extended  as  Marseilles.  The  great  mari- 
time cities  of  antiquity  have  disappeared,  but 
Marseilles  goes  on  aggrandizing  itself  for  ever, 
with  —  in  spite  of  very  general  transformation 
—  the  impress  of  the  successive  epochs,  Greek, 
Roman,  Frankish,  and  feudal,  still  in  evidence, 
here  and  there  where  the  memory  of  some 
quaint  and  bygone  custom  is  unearthed  or  some 
mediaeval  monument  is  brought  to  light. 

By  no  means  is  all  of  the  butterfly  order 
here  in  the  Mediterranean  metropolis.  "  Les 
affaires  "  are  very  serious  affairs,  and  prof- 
itable ones  to  those  engaged  in  their  pursuit, 
and  the  Marseillais  business  man  is  as  keen 
as  his  fellows  anywhere.  There  is  also  a  life 
redolent  of  science  and  art,  as  vivid  as  that  of 
the  capital  itself,  and  the  press  of  Marseilles 
is  one  of  the  most  literary  in  a  nation  of  lit- 
erary newspapers.  Taine  slandered  Marseilles 
when  he  said  that  it  was  wholly  given  up  to 
"  la  grosse  joie,"  as  he  did  also  when  he  said 
that  the  pleasure  of  its  inhabitants  was  to  make 
money  out  of  breadstuff s  or  gamble  in  oil,  or 


Marseilles  —  Cosmopolis  125 


some  such  words.  And  Taine  was  a  Marseil- 
lais,  too. 

Here,  as  in  many  others  of  the  old-world 
cities  of  France,  are  streets  so  narrow  that  a 
cart  may  not  turn  around  in  them,  all  busy  with 
the  little  affairs  of  the  lower  classes,  full  of 
taverns,  bars  and  debits  de  vin,  cheap  cafes- 
chantants,  —  from  which  the  stranger  had  best 
keep  out,  —  and  from  one  end  to  the  other  full 
of  straggling  sailors  of  all  nationalities  and 
tongues  under  the  sun. 

This  population  of  sailors  and  dock-labour- 
ers is  of  a  certain  doubtful  social  probity,  but 
all  the  same  the  spectacle  is  unique,  and  far 
more  edifying  to  witness  than  a  midnight  ram- 
ble through  San  Francisco's  Chinatown,  though 
perhaps  more  fraught  with  danger  to  one's 
person. 

The  Rue  de  la  Republique  has  pushed  its 
way  through  this  old  quartier,  but  it  has 
brought  with  it  none  of  the  modern  life  of  the 
newer  parts  of  the  town,  and  the  narrow,  tor- 
tuous streets  around  and  about  the  "  Hotel 
Dieu  "  are  as  brutally  uncouth  as  any  old-time 
quarter  of  a  great  city  peopled  by  the  poorer 
classes ;  with  this  difference,  that  at  Marseilles 
everything,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  is  ex- 
aggerated. 


126  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

It  is  here  in  this  old  quarter  that  one  finds 
the  true  type  of  the  Marseillais  as  he  was  in 
other  days,  if  one  knows  where  to  look  for  him, 
and  what  he  looks  like  when  he  meets  him,  for 
Marseilles  is  so  full  of  strange  men  and  women 
that  the  bird  of  passage  is  likely  enough  to 
confound  Greek  with  Jew  and  Lascar  with 
Arab,  to  say  nothing  of  the  difficulty  of  putting 
the  Maltese  and  Portuguese  in  their  proper 
places  in  the  medley.  When  it  comes  to  dis- 
tinguishing the  Provencal  from  the  Marseillais 
and  the  Nigois  from  the  Catalan,  the  task  is 
more  difficult  still. 

The  Marseillais  pur  sang  (except  that  it  has 
been  many  centuries  since  he  has  been  pur 
sang)  is  a  unique  type  among  the  inhabitants 
of  France,  the  product  of  many  successive  im- 
migrations from  most  of  the  Mediterranean 
countries.  He  is  indeed  an  extraordinary  de- 
velopment, though  in  no  way  outre  or  unsym- 
pathetic, in  spite  of  being  a  bloodthirsty-look- 
ing individual.  To  describe  him  were  impos- 
sible. The  Marseillais  is  a  Marseillais  by  his 
dark  complexion,  by  his  svelt  figure,  and  by 
the  exuberance  of  his  gestures  and  his  voice. 
Always  ready  for  adventure  or  pleasure,  he 
is  the  very  stuff  of  which  the  sea-rovers  of 
another  day  were  made. 


Marseilles  —  Cosmopolis  127 

The  Marseillais  has  been  portrayed  by  many 
a  French  writer,  and  his  virtues  have  been 
lauded  and  his  faults  exposed.  Mery,  a  Mar- 
seillais himself,  has  traced  an  amusing  char- 
acter, while  Edmond  About  and  Taine  were 
both  struck  by  the  Marseillais  love  of  lucre 
and  violent  amusements.  Alexandre  Dumas 
has  drawn  more  or  less  idyllic  portraits  of  him. 

The"  topographical  transformation  of  Mar- 
seilles in  recent  times  has  been  great.  It  was 
the  first  among  the  great  cities  of  France  to 
cut  new  streets  and  build  sumptuous  modern 
palaces  devoted  to  civic  affairs.  The  Eue  de 
la  Eepublique,  if  still  lined  in  part  with  inferior 
houses,  is  nevertheless  one  of  the  fine  thorough- 
fares of  the  world.  Its  laying  out  was  a  colos- 
sal task,  cutting  through  the  most  solidly  built 
and  most  ancient  quarter  of  the  city.  Neither 
the  aristocratic  nor  the  bourgeois  population 
have  ever  come  to  it  for  business  or  residence, 
but  it  serves  the  conduct  of  affairs  in  a  way 
which  the  tortuous  streets  of  the  old  regime 
would  not  have  done.  Many  of  the  great  ave- 
nues of  the  city  are  as  grand  in  their  way  as 
the  best  and  most  aristocratic  of  those  in  Paris, 
and  the  world  of  commerce,  of  the  Bourse,  and 
of  the  liberal  professions,  lives  surrounded  by 
as  much  sumptuousness  and  good  taste  as  the 


128  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

same  classes  in  the  capital  itself.  In  other 
words,  "  la  societe  Marseillais  "  is  no  less  en- 
dowed with  good  taste  and  the  love  of  luxurious 
appointments  and  surroundings  than  is  the 
most  Parisian  of  Parisian  circles,  —  a  term 
which  has  come  to  mean  much  in  the  refine- 
ments of  modern  life.  "  Des  plaisirs  bruyants 
et  grossiers  "  may  have  struck  the  Taines  of 
a  former  day,  but  the  twentieth-century  student 
of  men  and  affairs  will  not  place  the  Marseil- 
lais and  the  things  of  his  household  very  far 
down  in  the  social  scale,  provided  he  is  pos- 
sessed of  a  mind  which  is  trained  to  make  just 
estimates. 

Le  Prado  is  another  of  the  fine  streets  of 
Marseilles.  It  is  a  majestic  boulevard,  the  con- 
tinuation of  the  Eue  de  Eome,  beyond  the  Place 
Castellane.  Practically  it  is  a  great  tree-bor- 
dered avenue,  which  is  lined  with  the  gardens 
of  handsome  villas.  It  is  as  attractive  as  Unter 
den  Linden  or  the  Champs  filysees. 

Marseilles  has  many  specialities.  Bouilla- 
baisse is  one  of  them;  flowers,  which  you  buy 
at  a  ridiculous  low  price  at  those  curious  little 
pulpits  which  line  the  Cours  St.  Louis,  are  an- 
other; and  a  third  are  the  strawberries,  which 
are  here  brought  to  one's  door  and  sold  in  all 
the  perfection  of  fresh  picked  fruit.    They  are 


Marseilles  —  Cosmopolis  129 


sold  in  ' '  pots  ' '  of  porous  stone,  covered  with 
a  peculiar  gray  paper,  and  the  size  and  ca- 
pacity of  the  "  pots  "  is  regulated  by  a  munic- 
ipal decree.  The  "  grand  pot  "  must  contain 
four  hundred  grammes,  and  the  "  petit  pot  " 
two  hundred.  All  of  which  is  vastly  more  sat- 
isfactory for  the  purchaser  than  the  false-bot- 


TVf'T  '»/J 


Flower  Market,  Cours  St.  Louis 


tomed  box  of  America  or  the  underweighted 
scales  of  the  greengrocer  in  England. 

This  "  pot-a-f raise  "  of  Marseilles  is  a  com- 
modity strictly  local,  and  no  fresh  fruit  is  more 
in  demand  in  season  than  the  strawberries  of 
Eoquevaire,  Beaudinard,  and  Aubagne.  The 
season's  consumption  of  strawberries  at  Mar- 
seilles is  350,000  litres. 


130  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

The  street  cries  of  Marseilles  may  not  be 
as  famous  as  those  of  London,  but  they  are 
many  and  lively  nevertheless.  Fish,  fruit,  and 
many  other  things  form  the  burden  of  the  cries 
one  hears  at  Marseilles  in  these  days ;  but,  like 
most  of  the  picturesque  old  customs,  this  is 
being  crowded  out.  The  itinerant  vitrier  still 
makes  his  round,  however,  and  you  may  hear 
him  any  day: 

"  Encore  un  carreau  cass6 
Voici  le  vitrier  qui  passe.  .  .  . M 

In  this  connection  it  is  interesting  to  recall 
that  all  glass  made  in  Provence  in  the  thir- 
teenth century  was  by  authorization  of  the 
Bishop  of  Marseilles,  and  that  the  industry 
was  entirely  in  the  hands  of  the  Chartreux 
monks.  Only  in  the  fifteenth  century,  at  the 
hands  of  the  good  King  Rene,  did  the  trade 
receive  any  extension. 

The  fishing  industry  has  ever  been  prominent 
in  the  minor  affairs  of  Marseilles.  The  ancient 
Provencal  government  guaranteed  the  fishing 
rights  to  certain  "  patrons  pecheurs,"  and, 
when  the  province  was  united  with  the  Crown 
of  France,  in  1481,  the  Grand  Seneschal  con- 
firmed the  privileges  in  the  name  of  Louis  XI. 


Marseilles  —  Cosmopolis  131 

They  were  again  confirmed,  in  1536,  by  Fran- 
cois I.,  and  in  1557  by  Henri  II. 

By  letters  patent,  in  December,  1607,  Henri 
IV.  gave  a  permit  to  the  pecheurs  of  Marseilles 
which  allowed  them  to  sell  their  fish  in  all  villes 
de  mer  that  they  might  choose,  and  to  be  free 
from  paying  any  tax  for  the  privilege.  Thus 
it  is  seen  that  from  the  very  earliest  times  the 
traffic  was  one  which  was  bound  to  prosper 
and  add  to  the  city's  wealth  and  independence. 

Louis  XIII.  was  even  more  liberal.  He  ex- 
tended the  right  of  control  of  the  fishing,  even 
by  strangers,  to  the  "  Prud'hommes  de  Mar- 
seilles "  (a  sort  of  a  fishing  guild,  which  en- 
dures even  unto  to-day),  and  forbade  any  tak- 
ing of  fish  between  Cap  Couronne  and  Cap  de 
l'Aigle,  except  with  their  permission. 

Louis  XIV.,  on  a  certain  occasion,  when  he 
was  passing  through  Marseilles,  confirmed  all 
that  his  predecessors  had  granted,  and  further 
accorded  them  3,500  minots  of  salt,  at  a  price 
of  eleven  livres  per  minot. 

The  "Prud'hommes  "  formed  a  sort  of  court 
or  tribunal  which  regulated  all  disputes  be- 
tween members.  To  open  a  case  one  merely 
had  to  deposit  two  sols  in  a  box,  the  contents 
of  which  were  destined  for  the  poor  (the  other 
side  contributing  also),  and  four  of  the  chosen 


132  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

number  of  the  "Prud'hommes  "  sat  in  judg- 
ment upon  the  question  at  issue.  The  loser  was 
addressed  in  the  short  and  explicit  formula, 
"  La  loi  vous  condamne,"  and  forthwith  he 
either  had  to  pay  up,  or  his  boats  and  nets  were 
seized.  "  Never  was  there  a  law  so  efficacious," 
says  the  historian  of  this  interesting  guild; 
and  all  will  be  inclined  to  agree  with  him. 

The  "Prud'hommes  "  of  Marseilles  still  exist 
as  an  institution,  but  their  picturesque  costume 
of  other  days  has,  it  is  needless  to  say,  disap- 
peared. The  old-time  "Prud'homme,"  with  a 
Henri  Quatre  mantle,  a  velvet  toque  for  a  hat, 
and  a  two-handed  sword,  would  be  a  strange 
figure  on  the  streets  of  up-to-date  Marseilles. 

The  amateur  fisherman  in  France  is  not  the 
minor  factor  that  English  Nimrods  would  have 
one  believe,  though  the  mere  taking  of  fish  is 
a  side  issue  with  him.  Not  always  does  he  make 
of  it  a  solitary  occinpation.  At  Marseilles  he 
has  his  "  fishing  excursions  "  and  his  "  chow- 
der-parties," and  the  deep-sea  fishing  bouts 
held  off  the  Provencal  coast  would  do  credit  to 
a  Eockaway  skipper. 

Eead  the  following  announcement  of  the  ban- 
quet of  "La  Societe  de  Peche  la  Girelle  "  of 
Marseilles,  culled  from  a  morning  paper: 

"  Members  will  meet  at  six  o'clock  in  the 


Marseilles  —  Cosmopolis  133 


morning,  and  will  leave  for  the  Planier  (Mar- 
seilles' great  far-reaching  light)  grounds  '  sur 
le  bateau  a  vapeur  le  Cannois;  '  the  overflow 
in  small  boats.  To  return  at  noon  for  a  grand 
banquet  chez  Mistral.  Bouillabaisse  et  toute  le 
reste." 

Another  great  passion  of  the  Marseillais,  of 
all  classes,  is  for  the  "  campagne."  The 
wealthy  commergant  has  his  sumptuous  villa 
—  always  gaily  built,  but  a  sad  thing  from  an 
architectural  point  of  view  —  in  the  valley  of 
the  Huveaune,  or  on  the  slopes  of  the  "  Cor- 
niche  "  overlooking  the  Mediterranean.  The 
petit  bourgeois,  the  shopkeeper  or  the  man  of 
small  affairs,  contents  himself  with  a  cabanon, 
but  it  is  his  maison  de  campagne  just  the  same. 
It  is  merely  a  stone  hut  with  a  tiny  terrace 
fronting  it  on  the  sunny  side,  sheltered  by  a 
tonnelle,  and  that  is  all.  The  proprietor  of 
this  grand  affair  spends  his  Sundays  and  his 
fete-days  throughout  the  year  here  on  the  slope 
of  some  rocky  hill  overlooking  the  sea,  sleeps 
on  a  camp  bedstead,  and  goes  out  early  in  the 
morning  pour  la  peche,  in  the  hope  of  taking 
fish  enough  to  make  his  bouillabaisse.  Prob- 
ably he  will  catch  nothing,  but  he  will  have 
his  bouillabaisse  just  the  same,  even  if  he  has 
to  go  back  to  town  to  get  it  in  a  quayside  res- 


134  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

taurant.  This  is  a  simple  and  healthful  enough 
way  to  spend  one's  time  assuredly,  so  why  cavil 
at  it,  in  spite  of  its  ludicrous  and  juvenile  side, 
—  a  sort  of  playing  at  housekeeping. 

The  cabanons  are  numerous  for  miles  around 
Marseilles  in  every  direction,  above  all  on  the 
hills  overlooking  the  sea  and  in  the  valleys 
of  the  Oriol,  the  Berger,  and  the  Huveaune, 
in  fact,  in  any  ravine  where  one  may  gain  a 
foothold  and  hire  a  pied-de-terre  for  fifty  to 
a  hundred  francs  a  year. 

The  real  traveller  of  enthusiasm,  the  kind 
that  Sterne  wrote  for  when  he  said  "  let  us 
go  to  France,"  will  not  be  content  merely  to 
know  Marseilles,  the  town,  but  will  wander 
afield  to  Estaque,  to  Allauoh,  to  Les  Aygalades, 
and  to  any  and  all  of  the  scores  of  excursion 
points  which  the  Marseillais,  more  than  the 
inhabitants  of  any  other  city  in  France,  are 
so  fond  of  visiting.  Then,  and  then  only,  will 
one  know  the  real  life  of  the  Marseillais. 

The  tour  of  the  shores  of  the  golfe  alone 
will  occupy  a  week  of  one's  time  very  profit- 
ably, be  he  poet  or  painter. 

At  Les  Aygalades  are  the  remains  of  a  Car- 
melite chapel,  which  came  under  the  special 
patronage  of  King  Rene  of  Anjou,  also  a  cha- 
teau constructed  for  the  Marechal  do  Villars. 


A  Cabanon 


Marseilles  —  Cosmopolis  135 

Back  of  the  Bassin  d'Arenc  is  a  hamlet,  now 
virtually  a  part  of  Marseilles  itself,  perched 
high  upon  a  hill,  from  which  one  gets  a  mar- 
vellous panorama  of  all  the  life  of  the  great 
seaport. 

Seon-Saint-Andre  was  formerly  a  suburb 
composed  entirely  of  vineyards,  where  pictur- 
esque peasants  worked  and  sang  as  they  do  in 
opera,  and  spent  their  evenings  rejoicing  over 
the  one  great  meal  of  the  day.  To-day  all  sug- 
gestion of  this  rural  and  sylvan  life  has  dis- 
appeared, and  brick-yards  and  soap-factories 
furnish  an  entirely  different  colour  scheme  for 
one's  canvas. 

At  St.  Julien  Caesar  had  one  of  his  many 
camps  which  he  so  plentifully  scattered  over 
Gaul,  and,  as  usual,  he  selected  it  with  judg- 
ment; certainly  nothing  but  modern  engines 
of  war  could  ever  have  successfully  attacked 
his  intrenchments  from  land  or  sea. 

All  the  country  immediately  back  of  Mar- 
seilles to  the  eastward  was,  in  a  former  day, 
covered  with  a  dense  forest.  A  breach  was 
made  in  it  by  Charles  IX.,  who  had  not  the 
least  notion  of  what  the  preservation  of  the 
kingdom's  resources  meant,  though  another 
monarch,  Rene  d'Anjou,  came  here  frequently 
to    the    tiny    chapel    of    St.    Marguerite  —  the 


136  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


remains  of  which  still  exist  in  the  suburb  of 
the  same  name  — to  pray  that  he  might  be 
favoured  by  capturing  "  the  deer  of  many 
horns."  From  this  latter  fact  it  may  be  in- 
ferred that  he  was  a  true  lover  and  preserver 
of  forests,  like  the  later  Franctis  of  Renais- 
sance times. 

Offshore  the  islands  of  the  bay  contain  much 
of  historic  interest,  including  the  Chateau  d'lf 
with  all  its  array  of  fact  and  romance,  the  lies 
Pomegue  and  Rattonneau,  and  the  He  de  Riou. 
The  latter  lies  just  eastward  of  the  Planier 
and  is  so  small  as  to  be  hardly  recognizable 
on  the  map,  and  yet  prolific  in  the  remains  of 
a  civilization  of  another  day.  It  was  only 
within  the  present  year  (1905)  that  an  en- 
graved silex  was  discovered  buried  in  its  sandy 
soil.  This  stone  was  identical  with  those  in- 
scribed stones  found  in  Egypt  from  time  to 
time,  and  dating  from  a  period  long  previous 
to  any  recorded  history  of  that  country. 

This  sermon  in  stone  was  presented  to  the 
French  Academy  of  Inscriptions,  and  by  them 
thought  to  prove  that  the  Egyptians,  even  as 
far  back  as  prehistoric  times,  had  already 
learned  the  art  of  navigation  by  small  craft 
(for  they  were  then  ignorant  of  working  in 
metal),  and  in  some  considerable  body  had  set- 


Marseilles  —  Cosmopolis  137 

tied  here  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Marseilles 
long  before  the  Phoceans.  This  is  all  conjec- 
ture of  course,  as  the  stone  may  have  been  a 
fragment  of  a  larger  morsel  which  formed  the 
anchor  of  some  fishing-boat,  or  a  piece  of  bal- 
last taken  aboard  off  the  Egyptian  coast,  which 
ultimately  found  a  resting-place  here  on  Riou. 
It  may  be,  even,  that  some  ' '  collector  ' '  of  ages 
ago  brought  the  stone  here  as  a  curio ;  in  short, 
it  may  have  been  transported  by  any  one  of  a 
hundred  ways  and  at  almost  any  time.  At  any 
rate,  it  is  all  guesswork,  regardless  of  the  sen- 
sation which  the  finding  of  it  made  among 
archaeologists ;  but  it  proves  that  all  is  not  yet 
known  of  ancient  history. 

It  is  a  remarkable  view,  looking  landwards, 
that  one  gets  from  the  height  of  the  donjon 
of  the  Chateau  d'If.  Back  of  the  city,  which 
itself  is  but  a  short  three  miles  distant,  is  a 
wonderful  framing  of  mountainous  rocks  and 
gray  hills  set  about  with  olive  and  fig  trees, 
while  in  the  immediate  foreground  is  a  forest 
of  masts  and  belching,  smoky  chimneys  which 
give  a  distance  and  transparency  to  the  view 
which  is  almost  too  picturesque  to  be  true.  It 
is  no  dream,  however,  and  there  is  nothing  of 
illusion  about  it,  and  soon  a  tiny  steamboat 
will  have  brought  one  back  to  shore  and  all  the 


138  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

excitable  diversions  of  the  Cannebiere.  One 
makes  his  way  to  shore  around  and  behind 
innumerable  bales,  boxes,  and  baskets,  coils  of 
rope,  charrettes  and  camions,  and  treads  gin- 
gerly over  sleeping  roustabouts  and  sailors. 

The  docks  and  quays  of  Marseilles  will  have 
a  surprise  for  those  familiar  only  with  the  ports 
of  La  Manche  and  the  western  ocean.  High 
or  low  water  there  makes  a  considerable  eco- 
nomic and  picturesque  difference,  but  in  the 
Mediterranean  there  is  always  a  regular  depth 
of  water;  its  level  is  always  practically  the 
same,  and  fishing-boats  and  great  Eastern 
liners  alike  come  and  go  without  thought  of 
tides  or  dock-gates. 

The  commerce  of  Marseilles  is,  as  might  be 
expected,  highly  varied,  and  the  flags  of  all 
the  great  and  small  commercial  nations  are  at 
one  time  or  another  within  its  port,  whose  im- 
portations —  not  counting  the  orange  boats  — 
greatly  exceed  the  exports.  Nearly  a  third  of 
the  imports  are  made  up  of  cereals,  Marseilles 
being  by  far  the  greatest  port  of  entry  in 
France  for  this  class  of  product.  Russia, 
Turkey,  Algeria,  the  Indies,  and  America  send 
their  wheat,  Piedmont  and  Asia  their  rice, 
Algeria,  Tunis,  and  Russia  their  barley,  while 


Marseilles  —  Cosmopolis  139 

beans  are  sent  in  great  quantities  from  the 
ports  of  the  Black  Sea. 

Marseilles  is  the  centre,  the  most  important 
in  all  France,  for  the  production  of  all  manner 
of  oils,  vegetable,  mineral,  and  animal.  Petro- 
leum, cotton-seed,  the  olive,  and  many  kindred 
fruits  and  berries  all  go  to  make  possible  a 
vast  industry  which  is  famous  throughout  the 
world. 

Sugar-refining,  too,  is  of  great  proportions 
here,  and  the  trade  of  importing  and  export- 
ing the  raw  and  refined  sugars  amounts  to  over 
one  hundred  millions  of  kilos  per  year.  Of 
the  raw  sugar  imported,  more  than  two-thirds 
comes  from  the  French  colonies,  so  that,  with 
the  enormous  production  of  beet-sugar  as  well, 
France  alone,  of  all  European  nations,  has  the 
sugar  question  solved. 

Coffee  forms  a  considerable  part  of  the  trade 
of  Marseilles,  sixteen  to  twenty  thousand  tons 
being  handled  in  one  year.  This  of  course 
demonstrates  that  the  French  are  great  coffee- 
drinkers,  though  the  palm  goes  to  Holland  for 
the  greatest  consumption  per  capita.  Cocoa 
and  coffee  come  to  France  in  large  quantities 
from  Brazil,  and  pepper  from  Indo-China. 

It  is  an  interesting  fact  to  record  that  the 
receipts  of  cotton  in  the  port  of  Marseilles  are 


140  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

steadily  on  the  decrease,  by  far  the  largest  bulk 
now  being  delivered  at  Le  Havre  and  Rouen 
by  reason  of  their  proximity  to  the  great  cot- 
ton-manufacturing centres  in  Normandy,  while 
the  mills  in  the  east  of  France  choose  to  bring 
their  supplies  through  the  gateway  of  Antwerp. 
The  traffic  at  Marseilles  has  fallen,  accordingly, 
from  125,000  bales  in  1876  to  less  than  50,000 
at  the  present  day.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
importation  of  the  cocoons  of  the  silkworm 
finds  its  natural  gateway  at  Marseilles,  this 
being  the  most  direct  route  from  China,  Japan, 
Turkey,  Greece,  and  Austria  to  the  factories 
of  Lyons. 

Marseilles  is  the  centre  of  the  soap  industry 
of  the  world,  situated  as  it  is  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  region  of  the  olive,  which  makes  not  only 
the  olive-oil  of  commerce  but  the  best  of  com- 
mon soaps  as  well,  including  the  famous  Cas- 
tile soap,  which  has  deserted  Castile  for  Mar- 
seilles. One  hundred  and  twenty-one  million 
kilos  of  soap  are  made  here  every  year,  of 
which  a  fifth  part,  at  least,  is  exported  to  all 
corners  of  the  globe,  the  bulk  being  taken  by 
the  French  colonies. 

The  passenger  traffic  of  the  great  liners 
which  come  and  go  from  this,  the  chief  port 
of  the  south  of  Europe,  is  vast.     The  move- 


Marseilles  —  Cosmopolis 


141 


I 


142 Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

nient  of  paquebots  and  courriers  is  incessant, 
not  only  those  that  go  to  the  Mediterranean 
ports  of  Algeria,  Spain,  Tunis,  Corsica,  Italy, 
Greece,  Turkey,  the  Black  Sea,  and  all  those 
queer  and  little  known  ports  of  the  near  East 
as  well,  but  also  the  great  liners,  French,  Eng- 
lish, German,  Dutch,  and  Italian,  which  make 
the  round  voyages  to  the  Far  East  and  Aus- 
tralia with  the  regularity  of  Atlantic  liners, 
but  with  vastly  more  romance  about  them,  for 
the  death-dealing  pace  of  twenty-two  or  twenty- 
three  knots  an  hour  is  unknown  under  the 
sunny  skies  of  the  Mediterranean  and  Indian 
Ocean. 

The  old  and  new  parts  of  Marseilles  are  one 
of  the  chief  attractions  for  the  stranger  to  this 
fascinating  city.  The  Port  Vieux  and  the  new 
Bassins  de  la  Joliette  are  separated  by  a  penin- 
sula which  comprises  the  chief  part  of  old  Mar- 
seilles; indeed  it  is  the  site  of  the  primitive 
city  of  the  Phoceans,  who  came,  it  is  undeniably 
asserted,  six  hundred  years  before  Christ. 

If  the  new  ports  of  Marseilles  have  not  the 
same  picturesqueness  as  the  Port  Vieux,  they 
at  least  overtop  it  in  their  intensity  of  action 
and  the  fever  of  commercialism.  Here,  too, 
hundreds  of  sailing-vessels  (but  of  an  entirely 
different  species  from  those  of  the  old  port) 


Marseilles  —  Cosmopolis  143 


come  and  go  without  cessation,  bringing  the 
diverse  products  of  the  Mediterranean  shores 
to  the  markets  of  the  world  by  way  of  Mar- 
seilles: piles  of  golden  oranges  from  the  Bal- 
earic Isles,  figs  from  Smyrna,  wool  from  Al- 
geria, rice  from  Piedmont,  arachides  from 
Senegal,  dyestuffs  from  Central  America,  pine 
from  Sweden  and  Norway,  and  marbles  from 
Italy.  All  this,  and  more,  greets  the  eye  at 
every  turn,  and  the  very  sight  of  the  varied 
cargoes  tells  a  story  which  is  fascinating  and 
romantic  even  in  these  worldly  times. 

Take  the  orange  cargoes  for  example;  the 
mere  handling  of  them  between  the  ship  and 
the  shore  is  as  picturesque  as  one  could  pos- 
sibly imagine.  The  unloading  is  done  by 
women  called  porteiris,  all  of  whom  it  is  said 
are  Genoese,  although  why  this  should  be  is 
difficult  for  the  tyro  to  understand,  and  the 
master  longshoreman  under  whom  they  work 
apparently  does  not  know  either.  The  oranges 
are  brought  on  shore  in  gTeat  baskets,  which 
are  poured  out  in  a  steady  stream  into  the  cars 
on  the  quay.  During  the  process  all  is  gay  with 
song  and  laughter,  it  being  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal tenets  of  the  creed  of  the  southern  labour- 
ers, men  or  women,  that  they  must  not  be  dull 
at  their  work. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

A   RAMBLE   WITH   DUMAS   AND   MONTE   CRISTO 

One  day,  something  like  four  hundred  years 
ago,  a  little  colony  of  Catalans  quitted  Spain 
and,  sailing  across  the  terrible  Gulf  of  Lions, 
came  to  Marseilles  and  begged  the  privilege 
of  settling  on  that  jutting  tongue  of  land  to 
the  left  of  Marseilles 's  Vieux  Port,  known  even 
to-day  as  the  Pointe  des  Catalans. 

To  reach  the  Pointe  and  Quartier  des  Cata- 
lans one  follows  along  the  quays  of  the  old 
port  and  climbs  the  height  to  the  left.  Of 
course  one  should  walk;  no  genuine  literary 
pilgrim  ever  takes  a  car,  though  there  is  one 
leaving  the  Cannebiere,  marked  "  Catalans," 
every  few  minutes. 

Dantes's  Mercedes  was  a  Catalane  of  the 
Catalans,  and  is  the  most  lovable  figure  in  all 
the  Dumas  portrait  gallery.  Descended  from 
the  early  settlers  of  the  colony  at  Marseilles, 
Mercedes,  the  betrothed  of  the  ambitious 
Dantes,  was  indeed  lovely,  that  is,  if  we  accept 

144 


With  Dumas  and  Monte  Cristo     145 

Dumas 's  picture  of  her,  and  the  author's  por- 
traiture was  always  exceedingly  good,  what- 
ever may  have  been  his  errors  when  dealing 
with  historical  fact. 

Half -Moorish,  half-Spanish,  and  with  a  very 
little  Provencal  blood,  the  Catalans  kept  their 
distinct  characteristics,  while  the  other  settlers 
of  Marseilles  developed  into  the  type  well 
known  and  recognized  to-day  as  the  Marseil- 
lais. 

Their  looks,  manners,  and  customs,  their 
houses  and  their  clothes  were  faithful  —  and 
are  still,  to  no  small  extent  —  to  the  early  tra- 
ditions of  the  race,  and,  by  intermarrying,  the 
type  was  kept  comparatively  pure,  so  that  in 
this  twentieth  century  the  Catalan  women  of 
Marseilles  are  as  distinct  a  species  of  beautiful 
women  as  the  Nigoise  or  the  Arlesienne,  both 
types  distinct  from  their  French  sisters,  and 
each  of  great  repute  among  the  world's  beau- 
tiful women. 

Dumas  was  not  very  explicit  with  regard  to 
the  geography  of  this  Catalan  quarter  of  Mar- 
seilles, though  his  references  to  it  were  numer- 
ous in  that  most  famous  of  all  his  romances, 
"  Monte  Cristo." 

At  the  time  of  which  Dumas  wrote  (1815) 
its  topographical  aspect  had  probably  changed 


146  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

but  little  from  what  it  had  been  for  a  matter 
of  three  or  four  centuries,  and  the  sea-birds 
then,  even  as  now,  hovered  about  the  jutting 
promontory  and  winged  their  way  backwards 
and  forwards  across  the  mouth  of  the  old  har- 
bour, where  the  ugly  but  useful  Pont  Trans- 
bordeur  now  stretches  its  five  hundred  metres 
of  wire  ropes. 

Around  the  Anse  and  the  Pointe  des  Catalans 
were  —  and  are  still  —  grouped  the  habitations 
of  the  Catalan  fisher  and  sailor  folk.  One  sees 
to-day,  among  the  men  and  women  alike,  the 
same  distinction  of  type  which  Dumas  took  for 
his  ideal,  and  one  has  only  to  climb  any  of  the 
narrow  stairlike  streets  which  wind  up  from 
the  sea-level  to  see  the  counterpart  of  Dantes's 
Mercedes  sitting  or  standing  by  some  open 
doorway. 

For  a  detailed,  but  not  too  lengthy,  descrip- 
tion of  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  Cata- 
lans of  Marseilles,  one  can  not  do  better  than 
turn  to  the  pages  of  Dumas  and  read  for  him- 
self what  the  great  romancer  wrote  of  the 
lovely  Mercedes  and  her  kind. 

There  are  at  least  a  half-dozen  chapters  of 
"  Monte  Cristo  "  which,  if  re-read,  would  form 
a  very  interesting  commentary  on  the  Mar- 
seilles of  other  days. 


With  Dumas  and  Monte  Cristo     147 

The  opening  lines  of  Dumas 's  romance  gives 
the  key-note  of  old  Marseilles:  "  On  the  28th 
of  February,  1815,  the  watch-tower  of  Notre 
Dame  de  la  Garde  signalled  the  '  trois-mats  ' 
Pharaon,  from  Smyrna,  Triest,  and  Naples." 

The  functions  of  Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde 
have  changed  somewhat  since  that  time,  but 
it  is  still  the  dominant  note  and  beacon  by  land 
and  sea,  from  which  sailors  and  landsmen  alike 
take  their  bearings,  and  it  is  the  best  of  start- 
ing-points for  one  who  would  review  the  past 
history  of  this  most  cosmopolitan  of  all  Eu- 
ropean cities. 

High  up,  overlooking  the  Chateau  du  Pharo, 
now  a  Pasteur  Hospital ;  above  the  old  Abbey 
of  St.  Victor,  now  a  barracks;  and  above  the 
Fort  St.  Nicholas,  which  guards  one  side  of  the 
entrance  to  Marseilles  port,  is  the  fort  and 
sanctuary  of  Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde.  The 
fort  was  one  of  the  first  erections  of  its  class 
by  Francois  Premier,  who  had  something  of 
a  reputation  as  a  fortress-builder  as  well  as 
a  designer  of  chateaux  and  a  winner  of  women's 
hearts.  Originally  the  fortress-chateau  en- 
folded within  its  walls  an  ancient  chapel  to 
Ste.  Marie,  and  an  old  tower  which  dated  from 
the  tenth  century.  This  old  tower,  overlooking 
the  town  as  well  as  the  harbour,  was  given  the 


148  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


name  of  La  Garde,  which  in  turn  was  taken  by 
the  chateau  which  ultimately  grew  up  on  the 
same  site. 

This  was  long  before  the  days  of  the  present 
gorgeous  edifice,  which  was  not  consecrated 
until  1864. 

The  chateau  bore  the  familiar  escutcheon  of 
the  Eoi-Chevalier,  the  symbolical  salamander, 
but  as  a  fortress  it  never  attained  any  great 
repute,  as  witness  the  following  poetical  satire : 

"  C'est  Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde, 
Gouvernement  commode  et  beau, 
A  qui  suffit  pour  toute  garde 
Un  Suisse,  avec  sa  hallebarde, 
Peint  sur  la  port  du  chateau." 

The  reference  was  to  a  painted  figure  of  a 
Swiss  on  the  entrance-door,  and  whatever  the 
irony  or  cynicism  may  have  been,  it  was  simply 
a  forerunner  of  the  time  when  the  fortress 
became  no  longer  a  place  to  be  depended  upon 
in  time  of  war,  though  at  the  time  of  which 
Dumas  wrote  it  was  still  a  signal-station 
whence  ships  coming  into  Marseilles  were  first 
reported. 

The  modern  church,  in  the  Byzantine  style, 
which  now  occupies  this  commanding  site,  is 
warm  in  the  affections  of  the  sailor-folk  of 
Marseilles;    besides  which  it  is  visited  inces- 


Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde  and  the 


Harbour  of  Marseilles 


With  Dumas  and  Monte  Cristo     149 

santly  by  pilgrims  from  all  parts  of  the  world 
and  for  all  maimer  of  reasons ;  some  to  bring  a 
votive  offering  of  a  tiny  ship  and  say  a  prayer 
or  two  for  some  dear  one  travelling  by  sea; 
another  to  place  at  the  foot  of  the  statne  of 
"  La  Bonne  Mere  "  a  golden  heart,  as  a  talis- 
man of  a  firm  affection ;  and  others  to  leave  lit- 
tle ivory  replicas  of  a  foot  or  an  arm  which  had 
miraculously  recovered  from  some  crippling 
accident.  Add  to  these  the  curious,  and  those 
who  come  for  the  view,  and  the  numbers  who 
ascend  to  this  commanding  height  by  the  nar- 
row streets  of  steps,  or  the  funiculaire,  are 
many  indeed.  As  an  enterprise  for  the  purpose 
of  vending  photographic  souvenirs,  the  whole 
combination  takes  on  huge  proportions.  The 
church  is  really  a  most  ornate  and  luxurious 
work,  built  of  the  marbles  of  Carrara  and 
Africa,  on  the  pure  Byzantine  plan,  and  sur- 
mounted with  an  enormous  gilded  statue  of 
the  Virgin  nearly  fifty  feet  in  height. 

This  great  beacon  by  land  and  sea,  rising 
as  it  does  to  a  height  of  considerably  over  five 
hundred  feet,  is  the  point  of  departure  of  that 
great  deep-sea  traffic  which  goes  on  so  contin- 
ually from  the  great  port  of  Marseilles.  An 
enthusiastic  and  imaginative  Frenchman  puts 
it  as  follows  —  and  it  can  hardly  be  improved 


150 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


1 1 


upon:   "'  Adieu!  ta  gardes  jalousement  ta  cou- 
ronne  de  reine  de  la  mer." 

Of  all  the  points  of  sentimental  and  romantic 
interest  at  Marseilles  and  in  its  neighbourhood, 


the  Chateau  d'lf  will  perhaps  most  strongly 
impress  itself  upon  the  mind  and  memory. 
The  Quartier  des  Catalans  and  the  Chateau 
d'lf  are  indeed  the  chief  recollections  which 
most  people  have  of  the  city  of  the  Phoceans, 
as  well  as  of  the  romance  of  "  Monte  Cristo." 


With  Dumas  and  Monte  Cristo     151 

The  descriptions  in  the  first  pages  of  this  won- 
derful romance  could  not  be  improved  upon 
in  the  idea  they  convey  of  what  this  grim  for- 
tress was  like  in  the  days  when  the  great 
Napoleon  was  languishing  at  Elba. 

Little  is  changed  to-day  so  far  as  the  general 
outlines  are  concerned.  The  little  islet  lies  off 
the  harbour's  mouth  scarce  the  proverbial 
stone's  throw,  and  visitors  come  and  go  and 
poke  their  heads  in  and  out  of  the  sombre  gal- 
leries and  dungeons,  asking  the  guardian, 
meanwhile,  if  they  are  really  those  of  which 
Dumas  wrote.  History  defines  it  all  with  even 
more  accuracy  than  does  romance,  for  one  may 
recall  that  the  prison  was  one  time  the  cage 
of  the  notorious  Marquis  de  la  Valette,  the 
"  Man  of  the  Iron  Mask,"  and  many  others. 

One's  mind  always  turns  to  Dantes  and  the 
gentle  Abbe  Faria,  however,  and  your  cicerone 
with  great  coolness  tells  you  glibly,  and  with 
perfect  conviction,  just  what  apartments  they 
occupied.  You  may  take  his  word,  or  you  may 
not,  but  it  is  well  to  recall  that  the  Abbe  Faria 
was  no  mythical  character,  though  he  never 
was  an  occupant  of  the  island  prison  in  which 
Dumas  placed  him. 

The  real  Abbe  Faria  was  a  metaphysicist  and 
a  hypnotist  of  the  first  rank  in  his  day,  and 


152  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

one  feels  that  there  is  more  than  a  suggestion 
of  this  —  or  of  some  somnambulistic  foresight 
or  prophecy  —  in  the  last  speech  which  Dumas 
gives  him  when  addressing  Dantes:  "  Surtout 
n'oubliez  pas  Monte  Cristo,  n'oubliez  pas  le 
tresor!  " 

Dumas 's  own  accounts  of  the  Chateau  d'lf 
are  indeed  wonderful  word-pictures,  descrip- 
tive and  narrative  alike.  It  is  romance  and 
history  combined  in  that  wonderful  manner  of 
which  Dumas  alone  was  the  master.  The  best 
guide,  undoubtedly,  to  Chateau  d'lf  is  to  be 
found  in  Chapters  XIV.,  XV.,  XVII.,  and  XX. 
of  Dumas 's  romance,  though,  truth  to  tell,  the 
action  of  his  plot  was  mostly  imaginative  and 
his  scenario  more  or  less  artificial. 

As  it  rounded  the  Chateau  d'lf,  a  pilot 
boarded  Dantes 's  vessel,  the  Pharaon,  between 
Cap  Morgion  and  the  He  de  Kiou.  "  Immedi- 
ately, the  platform  of  Fort  St.  Jean  was  cov- 
ered with  onlookers,  for  it  always  was  an  event 
at  Marseilles  for  a  ship  to  come  into  port." 

To-day  the  whole  topography  of  the  romance, 
so  far  as  it  refers  to  Marseilles,  is  all  spread 
out  for  the  enthusiast  in  brilliant  relief;  all 
as  if  one  were  himself  a  participant  in  the  joy- 
ousness  of  the  home-coming  of  the  good  ship 
Pharaon. 


With  Dumas  and  Monte  Cristo     133 

The  old  port  from  whose  basin  runs  the  far- 
famed  Cannebiere  was  the  Lacydon  of  an- 
tiquity, and  was  during  many  centuries  the 
glory  and  fortune  of  the  town.  To-day  the 
old-time  traffic  has  quite  forsaken  it,  but  it  is 
none  the  less  the  most  picturesque  seaport  on 
the  Mediterranean.  It  is  to-day,  even  as  it  was 
of  yore,  thronged  with  all  the  paraphernalia  of 
ships  and  shipping  of  the  old-school  order.  It 
is  always  lively  and  brilliant,  with  flags  flung 
to  the  breeze  and  much  cordage,  and  fishing- 
tackle,  and  what  not  belonging  to  the  little  sail- 
ing-craft which  to-day  have  appropriated  it 
for  their  own,  leaving  the  great  liners  and 
their  kind  to  go  to  the  newer  basins  and  docks 
to  the  westward. 

Virtually  the  Vieux  Port  is  a  museum  of  the 
old  marine,  for,  except  the  great  white-hulled, 
ocean-going  yachts,  which  seem  always  to  be 
at  anchor  there,  scarce  a  steam-vessel  of  any 
sort  is  to  be  seen,  save,  once  and  again,  a  fussy 
little  towboat.  Most  of  the  ships  of  the  Vieux 
Port  are  those  indescribably  beautiful  craft 
known  as  navaires  a  voiles  de  la  MedUerranee, 
which  in  other  words  are  simply  great  lateen- 
rigged,  piratical-looking  craft,  which,  regard- 
less of  the  fact  that  they  are  evidently  best 
suited  for  the  seafaring  of  these  parts,  invari- 


154  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

ably  give  the  stranger  the  idea  that  they  are 
something  of  an  exotic  nature  which  has  come 
down  to  us  through  the  makers  of  school  his- 
tories. They  are  as  strange-looking  to-day  as 
would  be  the  caravels  of  Columbus  or  the  vi- 
king ships  of  the  Northmen. 

All  the  Mediterranean  types  of  sailing  craft 
are  found  here,  and  their  very  nomenclature  is 
picturesque  —  bricks,  goelettes,  balancelles,  tar- 
tanes  and  barques  de  peche  of  a  variety  too 
great  for  them  all  to  have  names.  For  the  most 
part  they  all  retain  the  slim,  sharp  prow,  fre- 
quently ornamented  with  the  conventional  fig- 
urehead of  the  old  days,  a  bust,  or  a  three- 
quarters  or  full-length  female  figure,  or  per- 
haps a  guirlande  doree. 

One's  impression  of  Marseilles,  when  he  is 
on  the  eve  of  departure,  will  be  as  varied  as 
the  temperament  of  individuals ;  but  one  thing 
is  certain  —  its  like  is  to  be  found  nowhere  else 
in  the  known  and  travelled  world.  Port  Said 
is  quite  as  cosmopolitan,  but  it  is  not  grand 
or  even  picturesque ;  New  York  is  as  much  of 
a  mixture  of  nationalities  and  "  colonies,"  from 
those  of  the  Syrians  and  Greeks  on  the  lower 
East  Side  to  those  of  the  Hungarians,  Poles, 
and  Slavs  on  the  West,  but  they  have  not  yet 
become  firmly  enough  established  to  have  be- 


With  Dumas  and  Monte  Crist o     155 

come  picturesque,  —  they  are  simply  squalid 
and  dirty,  and  no  one  has  ever  yet  expressed 
the  opinion  that  the  waterside  life  of  New 
York's  wharves  and  locks  has  anything  of  the 
colour  and  life  of  the  Mediterranean  about  it; 
Paris  is  gay,  brilliant,  and  withal  cosmopolitan, 
but  there  is  a  conventionality  about  it  that  does 
not  exist  in  the  great  port  of  Marseilles,  where 
each  reviving  and  declining  day  brings  a  whole 
new  arrangement  of  the  mirror  of  life. 

Marseilles  is,  indeed,  "  la  plus  florissante  et 
la  plus  magnifique  des  villas  latines," 


CHAPTER   X. 

AIX  -  EN  -  PEOVENCE    AND   ABOUT    THERE 

Much  sentimental  and  historic  interest  cen- 
tres around  the  world-famed  ancient  capital  of 
Aix-en-Provence. 

To-day  its  position,  if  subordinate  to  that 
of  Marseilles  in  commercial  matters,  is  still 
omnipotent,  so  far  as  concerns  the  affairs  of 
society  and  state.  To-day  it  is  the  chef-lieu  of 
the  Arrondissement  of  the  same  name  in  the 
Departement  des  Bouches  du  Rhone;  the  seat 
of  an  archbishopric;  of  the  Cour  d'Appel;  and 
of  the  Academie,  with  its  faculties  of  law  and 
letters. 

Aix-en-Provence,  Aix-la-Chapelle,  and  Aix- 
les-Bains  are  all  confused  in  the  minds  of  the 
readers  of  the  Anglo-Parisian  newspapers. 
There  is  little  reason  for  this,  but  it  is  so.  Aix- 
la-Chapelle  is  the  shrine  of  Charlemagne ;  Aix- 
les-Bains,  of  the  god  of  baccarat  —  and  in  a 
later  day  bridge  and  automobile-boat  races; 
but  Aix-en-Provence  is  still  prominent  as  the 

166 


Aix-en-Provence  and  About  There  157 

brilliant  capital  of  the  beauty-loving  court  of 
the  middle  ages.  The  remains  of  this  past 
existence  are  still  numerous,  and  assuredly  they 
appeal  most  profoundly  to  all  who  have  ever 
once  come  within  their  spell,  from  that  wonder- 
fully ornate  portal  of  the  figlise  de  St.  Sauveur 
to  King  Rene's  "  Book  of  Hours  "  in  the  Bib- 
liotheque  Mejanes. 

Three  times  has  Aix  changed  its  location. 
The  ancient  ville  gauloise,  whose  name  appears 
to  be  lost  in  the  darkness  of  the  ages,  was  some 
three  kilometres  to  the  north,  and  the  ville 
romaine  of  Aquae-Sextiae  was  some  distance  to 
the  westward  of  the  present  city  of  Aix-en- 
Provence. 

The  part  played  in  history  by  Aix-en-Pro- 
vence was  great  and  important,  not  only  as 
regards  its  own  career,  but  because  of  the  aid 
which  it  gave  to  other  cities  of  Provence.  For 
the  assistance  which  she  gave  Marseilles,  when 
that  city  was  besieged  by  the  Spanish,  Aix 
was  given  the  right  to  bear  upon  her  blazoned 
shield  the  arms  of  the  Counts  of  Anjou  (the 
quarterings  of  Anjou,  Sicily,  and  Jerusalem). 
This  accounts  for  the  complex  and  familiar 
emblems  seen  to-day  on  the  city  arms. 

Rene  d 'Anjou  was  much  revered  in  Aix,  in 
which  town  he  made  his  residence.    It  was  but 


158  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

natural  that  the  city  should  in  a  later  day  hon- 
our him  with  a  statue  bearing  the  inscription, 
il Au  bon  roi  Rene,  dont  la  memoire  sera  ton- 
jours  chere  aux  Provencaux." 

There  were  times  when  sadness  befell  Aix, 
but  on  the  whole  its  career  was  one  of  glad- 
some pleasure.  To  Rene,  poet  of  imagination 
as  well  as  king,  was  due  the  founding  of  the 
celebrated  Fete-Dieu.  In  one  form  or  another 
it  was  intermittently  continued  up  to  the  mid- 
dle of  the  nineteenth  century.  Originally  it 
was  a  curious  bizarre  affair,  with  angels,  apos- 
tles, disciples,  and  the  whole  list  of  Biblical 
characters  personated  by  the  citizens.  The 
"  Fete  de  la  Reine  de  Saba,"  the  "  Danse  des 
Olivettes,"  and  the  "  Danse  des  fipees  "  were 
other  processional  fetes  which  contributed  not 
a  little  to  the  gay  life  here  in  the  middle  ages 
and  account  for  the  survival  to-day  of  many 
local  customs. 

Nostradamus,  the  prophet  of  Salon,  gives  the 
following  flattering  picture  of  "  Le  Prince 
d 'Amour,"  the  title  given  to  the  head  of  the 
mediaeval  Courts  of  Love  which  nowhere  flour- 
ished so  gorgeously  as  here: 

"  He  marched  always  at  the  head  of  the 
parade,  alone  and  richly  clad.  Behind  were 
his  lieutenants,  his  nobles,  his  standard-bear- 


Aix-en-Provence  and  About  There  159 


ers,  and  a  great  escort  of  horsemen,  all  cos- 
tumed at  his  expense." 

It  was  Louis  XIV.  who  decided  to  suppress 
the  function,  and  a  royal  declaration  to  that 
effect  was  made  on  the  16th  June,  1668. 

Aix  met  the  decree  by  deciding  that  the 
"  Prince  d 'Amour  "  should  be  replaced  by  a 
"  Lieutenant,"  to  whom  should  be  allowed  an 
annual  pension  of  eight  hundred  livres.  Ap- 
parently this  was  none  too  much,  as  one  of 
the  aspirants  for  the  honour  expended  some- 
thing like  two  thousand  livres  during  his  one 
year  in  office. 

The  costume  officially  prescribed  for  a 
"  Lieutenant  "  or  a  "  Prince  d 'Amour  "  was 
as  follows: 

"  A  corselet  and  breeches  '  a  la  romaine,' 
of  white  moire  with  silver  trimmings,  a  mantle 
trimmed  with  silver,  black  silk  stockings,  low 
shoes  tied  with  ribbons,  and  a  plumed  hat,  to- 
gether with  '  knee-ribbons,'  a  sword-knot  and 
a  bouquet,  also  with  streamers  of  ribbon. ' ' 

All  this  bespeaks  a  certain  gorgeousness 
which  was  only  accomplished  at  considerable 
personal  expense  on  the  part  of  him  on  whom 
the  honour  fell. 

In  one  form  or  another  this  sort  of  thing 
went  on  at  Aix  until  Revolutionary  times,  when 


160  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

the  pageant  was  abolished  as  smacking  too 
much  of  royal  procedure  and  too  little  of  re- 
publicanism. 

Avignon  and  Aries  are  intimately  associated 
with  the  modern  exponents  of  Provengal  litera- 
ture, but  Aix  will  ever  stand  as  the  home  of 
Provengal  letters  of  a  past  time,  Aix  the  nurs- 
ery of  the  ancient  troubadours. 

As  a  touring-ground  little  exploited  as  yet, 
the  region  for  fifty  kilometres  around  Aix-en- 
Provence  offers  so  much  of  novelty  and  charm 
that  it  may  not  be  likened  to  any  other  region 
in  France. 

Off  to  the  southwest  is  Les  Pennes,  one  of 
those  picturesque  cliff-towns,  scattered  here 
and  there  about  Europe,  which  makes  the  artist 
murmur :  "  I  must  have  that  in  my  portfolio, ' ' 
—  as  if  one  could  really  capture  its  scintillating 
beauty  and  grandeur. 

Les  Pennes  will  be  difficult  to  find  unless  one 
makes  a  halt  at  Aix,  Marseilles,  or  Martigues, 
for  it  appears  not  to  be  known,  even  by  name, 
outside  of  its  own  intimate  radius. 

It  shall  not  further  be  eulogized  here,  for 
fear  it  may  become  "  spoiled,"  though  there 
is  absolutely  no  attraction,  within  or  without 
its  walls,  for  the  traveller  who  wants  the  ca- 


Les  Pennes 


Aix-en- Provence  and  About  There    161 

pricious  delights  of  Monte  Carlo  or  the  amuse- 
ments of  a  city  like  Aix  or  Marseilles. 

On  the  ' '  Route  Nationale  ' '  between  Aix  and 
Marseilles  is  the  little  town  of  Gardanne,  only 
interesting  because  it  is  a  typical  small  town 
of  Provence.  It  has  for  its  chief  industries  the 
manufacture  of  aluminium  and  nougat,  widely 
dissimilar  though  they  be. 

Just  to  the  southward  rises  majestically  the 
mountain  chain  of  the  Pilon  du  Roi,  whose  peak 
climbs  skyward  for  710  metres,  overshadowing 
the  towns  of  Simiane,  with  its  remains  of  a 
Romanesque  chapel  and  a  thirteenth-century 
donjon,  and  Septemes,  with  the  ruins  of  its 
Louis  XIV.  fortifications,  and  Notre  Dame  des 
Anges,  which  was  erected  upon  the  remains  of 
the  ancient  chapel  of  an  old-time  monastery. 

From  the  platform  of  Notre  Dame  des  Anges 
is  to  be  had  a  remarkable  view  of  the  foot-hills, 
of  the  coast-line,  and  of  the  sea  beyond,  the 
whole  landscape  dotted  here  and  there  with 
yellow-gray  hamlets  and  olive-trees,  and  little 
trickling  streams.  It  suggests  nothing  so  much 
as  the  artificial  spectacular  compositions  which 
most  artists  paint  when  they  attempt  to  depict 
these  wide-open  views,  and  which  it  is  the  fash- 
ion to  condemn  as  not  being  true  to  nature. 
This  may  sometimes  be  the  case ;  but  often  they 


162  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

are  as  true  a  map  of  the  country  as  the  average 
topographical  survey,  and  far  more  true  than 
the  best  "  bird's-eye  "  photograph  that  was 
ever  taken. 

The  Pilon  du  Roi,  so  named  from  its  resem- 
blance to  a  great  ruined  or  unfinished  tower, 
rises  two  hundred  or  more  metres  above  the 
platform  of  the  church,  and  to  climb  its  pre- 
cipitous sides  will  prove  an  adventure  as  thrill- 
ing as  the  most  foolhardy  Alpinist  could  desire. 

There  is  a  little  corner  of  this  region,  lying 
between  Marseilles  and  Gardanne,  which,  in 
spite  of  the  overhead  brilliancy,  will  remind 
one  of  the  grimness  and  austerity  of  Flanders. 
One  comes  brusquely  upon  a  lusty  and  grow- 
ing coal-mining  industry  as  he  descends  the 
southern  slope  of  the  Chaine  du  Pilon  du  Roi, 
and,  while  all  around  are  umbrella-pines,  olive- 
trees,  cypress,  and  all  the  characteristics  of  a 
southern  landscape,  there  are  occasional 
glimpses  of  tall,  belching  chimneys  and  the 
sound  of  the  trolleys  carrying  the  coal  •  down 
to  a  lower  level.  Here  and  there,  too,  one  finds 
a  black  mountain  of  debris,  sooty  and  grimy, 
against  a  background  of  the  purest  tints  of 
the  artist's  palette.  The  contrast  is  too  horri- 
ble for  even  contemplation,  in  spite  of  the  im- 
portance of  the  industry  to  the  metropolis  of 


Aix-en-Provence  and  About  There   163 

Marseilles    and    the    neighbouring    Provencal 
cities. 

At  Auriol  is  another  "  exploitation  houil- 
lere,"  which  is  the  French  way  of  describing  a 
coal-mine.  To  the  tourist  and  lover  of  the 
beautiful  this  is  a  small  thing.  He  will  be  more 
interested  in  the  vineyards  and  olive  orchards 
and  the  flower-gardens  surrounding  the  little 
townlet,  which  here  bloom  with  a  luxuriance 
at  which  one  can  but  marvel.  The  town  is  a 
"  ville  industrielle,"  if  there  ever  was  one, 
since  all  of  its  inhabitants  seem  to  be  engaged 
in,  or  connected  with,  the  coal-mining  industry 
in  one  way  or  another.  In  spite  of  this,  how- 
ever, the  real  old-time  flavour  has  been  well 
preserved  in  the  narrow  streets,  the  sixteenth- 
century  belfry,  and  the  ruins  of  the  old  cha- 
teau, which  still  rise  proudly  above  the  little 
red-roofed  houses  of  Auriol 's  twenty-five  hun- 
dred inhabitants.  To-day  there  is  no  more 
fear  of  a  Saracen  invasion,  —  as  there  was 
when  the  chateau  was  built,  —  but  there  is  the 
ever  present  danger  that  some  yawning  pit's 
mouth  will  be  opened  beneath  its  walls,  and 
that  the  old  donjon  tower  will  fall  before  the 
invasion  of  progress,  as  has  been  the  fate  of 
so  many  other  great  historic  monuments  else- 
where. 


164  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

In  the  little  vineyard  country  there  are  to  be 
heard  innumerable  proverbs  all  connected  with 
the  soil,  although,  like  the  proverbs  of  Spain, 
they  are  applicable  to  any  condition  of  life,  as 
for  instance:  "  Buy  your  house  already  fin- 
ished and  your  vines  planted,"  or  "  Have  few 
vines,  but  cultivate  them  well." 

There  is  a  crop  which  is  gathered  in  Provence 
which  is  not  generally  known  or  recognized  by 
outsiders,  that  of  the  caper,  which,  like  the 
champignon  and  the  truffle,  is  to  the  "  cuisine 
frangaise  "  what  paprika  is  to  Hungarian  cook- 
ing. 

Without  doubt,  like  many  other  good  things 
of  the  table  in  the  south  of  France,  the  caper 
was  an  importation  from  the  Levant.  It  is 
a  curious  plant  growing  up  beside  a  wall,  or 
in  the  crevice  of  a  rocky  soil,  and  giving  a 
bountiful  harvest.  In  the  early  days  of  May 
the  "  boutons  "  appear,  and  the  smaller  they 
are  when  they  are  gathered,  —  so  long  as  they 
are  not  microscopic,  —  the  better,  and  the  bet- 
ter price  they  bring.  They  must  be  put  up 
in  bottles  or  tins  as  soon  as  picked  or  they  can- 
not be  made  use  of,  so  rapidly  do  they  deteri- 
orate after  they  have  been  gathered. 

The  crop  is  gathered  by  women  at  the  rate 
of  five  sous  a  kilo,  which,  considering  that  they 


Aix-en-Provence  and  About  There   165 

can  gather  twenty  or  more  kilos  a  day,  is  not 
at  all  bad  pay  for  what  must  be  a  very  pleasant 
occupation.  The  buyer  —  he  who  prepares  the 
capers  for  market  —  pays  seventy-five  centimes 
a  kilo,  and  after  passing  through  his  hands, 
by  a  process  which  merely  adds  a  little  vinegar 
(though  it  has  all  to  be  most  carefully  done), 
the  price  has  doubled  or  perhaps  trebled. 

Like  the  olive  and  the  caper,  the  apricot  is 
a  great  source  of  revenue  in  the  Var,  partic- 
ularly in  the  neighbourhood  of  Roquevaire, 
midway  between  Aix  and  Marseilles.  Slopes 
and  plains  and  valley  bottoms  are  all  given 
over,  apparently  indiscriminately,  to  the  cul- 
ture. Near  by  are  great  factories  which  slice 
the  fruit,  dry  it,  or  make  it  into  preserves. 
Formerly  the  growers  sold  direct  to  the  fac- 
tories ;  but  now,  having  formed  a  sort  of  mid- 
dleman's  association,  they  have  united  their 
forces  with  the  idea  of  commanding  better 
prices.  This  is  a  procedure  greatly  in  favour 
with  many  of  the  agricultural  industries  of 
France.  The  growers  of  plums  in  Touraine  do 
the  same  thing;  so  do  the  growers  of  cider- 
apples  in  Normandy ;  the  vineyard  proprietors 
of  the  Cognac  region,  and  the  cheese-makers 
of  Brie  and  Gournay;  and  the  plan  works  well 
and  for  the  advantage  of  all  concerned. 


166 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


C//TI.M.M. 


Roquevaire 


Aix-en-Provence  and  About  There  167 

The  apricots  of  the  Var,  in  their  natural 
state,  formerly  brought  but  five  or  six  centimes 
a  kilo,  but  by  the  new  order  of  things  the  price 
has  been  raised  to  ten. 

In  the  season  as  many  as  five  hundred  thou- 
sand kilos  of  apricots  are  peeled  and  stoned 
in  a  day  by  one  establishment  alone,  employing 
perhaps  two  hundred  women  and  young  girls. 
From  this  twenty-five  thousand  kilos  of  stones 
or  noyaux  result,  which,  in  turn,  are  sold  to 
make  orgeat  and  pate  d'amande,  —  which  fact 
may  be  a  surprise  to  many ;  it  was  to  the  writer. 

Forty  to  forty-five  centimes  a  kilo  is  the  price 
the  fruit  brings  when  it  is  turned  over  to  the 
canning  establishment,  where  the  process  does 
not  differ  greatly  from  that  in  similar  trades 
in  America  or  Australia,  though  the  "  abricots 
conserves  "  of  Roquevaire-en-Provence  lead 
the  world  for  excellence. 

Roquevaire's  next-door  neighbour  is  Au- 
bagne,  in  the  valley  of  the  Huveaune.  It  might 
well  be  called  a  suburb  and  dependency  of  the 
metropolis  of  Marseilles,  except  that  the  little 
town  claims  an  antiquity  equal  to  that  of  Mar- 
seilles itself.  To-day,  lying  in  the  fertile  plain 
of  Baudinard,  and  surrounded  by  innumerable 
plantations  devoted  to  the  growing  of  fruits, 
principally  strawberries,  it  is  noted  chiefly  as 


168  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

the  place  from  which  Marseilles  draws  its  prin- 
cipal supplies  of  early  garden  fruits  or  pri- 
meurs,  which  is  a  French  word  with  which  for- 
eigners should  familiarize  themselves.  It  is 
believed  that  Aubagne  was  the  Albania  of 
mediaeval  times,  and  it  was  so  named  on  the 
chart  of  Provence  made  in  the  tenth  century 
by  Boson,  Comte  de  Provence,  by  whom  it  was 
united  with  the  Vicomte  de  Marseilles,  and  its 
civil  and  religious  rights  vested  in  the  monks 
of  the  Abbey  of  St.  Victor. 

There  is  nothing  of  dulness  here,  and,  while 
in  no  sense  a  manufacturing  town,  such  as  Gar- 
danne,  there  are  innumerable  petty  industries 
which  have  grown  up  from  the  agricultural 
occupations,  such  as  the  putting  up  of  con- 
fitures, the  distilling  of  those  sweet,  syrupy 
concoctions  which  the  French  of  all  parts,  be 
they  on  the  boulevards  at  Paris  or  at  sea  on 
board  a  Messageries  liner,  drink  continually, 
no  variety  more  than  the  grenadine,  which  is 
produced  at  its  best  here. 

The  little  river  Huveaune  flows  southwest 
till  it  drops  down  to  the  sea  through  the  hills 
forming  the  immediate  background  of  Mar- 
seilles, and  gives  to  the  aspect  of  nature  what 
artists  absolutely  refuse  to  call  by  any  other 
name  than  character. 


Aix-en-Provence  and  About  There   169 

On  the  horizon  one  sees  a  great  cross,  planted 
on  the  summit  of  a  height  known  as  the  Garde- 
laban.  Beneath  it  is  a  great  hole  burrowed 
into  the  rock  and  anciently  supposed  to  be  of 
some  religious  significance,  just  what  no  one 
seems  to  know  or  care. 

A  few  generations  ago  gold  was  supposed  to 
be  buried  there;  but,  as  no  gold  was  found, 
this  was  one  of  the  superstitions  which  soon 
died  out.  The  new  Eldorado  was  not  to  be 
found  there,  though  a  self-styled  expert  once 
gave  the  opinion  (in  print,  and  solicited  sub- 
scriptions on  the  strength  of  the  claim)  that 
the  ground  was  full  of  "  des  amas  de  fer  hy- 
drate, contenant  des  pyrites  au  reflet  dore." 
The  claim  proved  false  and  so  it  was  dropped. 

Running  northeasterly  from  Marseilles,  at 
some  little  distance  from  the  city,  but  near 
enough  to  be  in  full  view  from  the  height  of 
Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde,  is  the  mass  of  the 
Saint  Pilon  range,  with  Sainte  Baume,  a  little 
to  the  southward,  rising  skyward  999  metres, 
which  height  makes  it  quite  a  mountain  when 
it  is  considered  that  it  rises  abruptly  almost 
from  the  sea-level. 

The  Foret  de  Sainte  Baume  is  one  of  those 
unspoiled  wildwoods  scattered  about  France 
which  do  much  to  make  travel  by  road  inter- 


170  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

esting  and  varied.  To  be  sure  Sainte  Baume  is 
on  the  road  to  nowhere ;  but  it  makes  a  pleasant 
excursion  to  go  by  train  from  Marseilles  to 
Auriol,  and  thence  by  carriage  to  St.  Zacharie 
and  Sainte  Baume.  It  will  prove  one  of  the 
most  delightful  trips  in  a  delightful  itinerary, 
and  furthermore  has  the  advantage  of  not  being 
overrun  with  tourists. 

St.  Zacharie,  like  many  other  of  the  tiny  hill 
towns  of  Provence,  looks  like  a  bit  of  trans- 
planted Italy.  The  village  is  small,  almost  to 
minute  proportions,  but  it  has  a  pottery  indus- 
try which  is  renowned  for  the  beauty  of  its 
wares.  There  is  also  a  church  which  was  built 
in  the  tenth  century,  and  moreover  there  is  a 
most  excellent  hotel,  the  Lion  d'Or.  The  sur- 
rounding hills  are  either  thickly  wooded  or 
absolutely  bare,  and  accordingly  the  scenic 
contrast  is  most  remarkable,  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  lover  of  the  unconventionally 
picturesque. 

As  for  the  Foret  de  Sainte  Baume  itself,  it 
is  thickly  grown  with  great  oaks,  poplars,  asp- 
ens, lichen-grown  beeches,  sycamores,  cy- 
presses, pines,  and  all  the  characteristic  under- 
growth of  a  virgin  forest,  which  this  virtually 
is,  for  no  forest  tract  in  France  has  been  less 
spoiled  or  better  cared  for.    In  addition  nearly 


Convent  Garden,  St.  Zacharie 


Aix-en-Provence  and  About  There   171 

all  the  medicinal  plants  of  the  pharmacopoeia 
are  also  found,  and  such  exotics  as  mistletoe 
and  orchids  as  would  delight  the  heart  of  a 
botanist  jaded  with  the  commonplaces  of  a 
northern  forest. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  wood  is  the  Hotellerie 
de  la  Sainte  Baume,  served  by  monks  and  nuns, 
who  will  cater  for  visitors  in  a  most  satisfac- 
tory manner  —  the  women  on  one  side  and  men 
on  the  other  —  and  give  them  veritable  mon- 
astic fare,  a  little  preserved  fish,  an  omelette, 
rice,  perhaps,  cooked  in  olive-oil,  and  a  full- 
bodied  red  or  white  wine  ad  lib.,  and  all  for 
a  ridiculously  small  sum. 

The  grotto  of  Sainte  Baume,  well  within  the 
forest,  was,  according  to  tradition,  the  resting- 
place  for  thirty-three  years  of  Mary  Magdalen, 
and  accordingly  it  has  become  a  place  of  pil- 
grimage for  the  faithful  at  Pentecost,  la  Fete 
Dieu,  and  the  Fete  de  Ste.  Madeleine  (22d 
July).  The  grotto  (from  which  the  name  comes, 
baume  being  the  Provengal  for  baoumo,  mean- 
ing grotto)  has  a  length  of  some  twenty  metres 
and  a  width  of  twenty-five  with  a  height  of 
perhaps  six  or  seven. 

It  is  a  damp,  dark  sort  of  a  cave,  with  water 
always  trickling  from  the  roof,  though  a  cistern 
on  the  floor  never  seems  to  run  over.    The  fall- 


172  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

ing  drops  make  an  uncanny  sound,  if  one  wan- 
ders about  by  himself,  and  he  marvels  at  the 
fact  that  it  has  become  a  religious  shrine  so 
famous  as  to  have  been  visited  by  Louis  and 
Marguerite  de  Provence,  Louise  de  Savoie, 
Claude  de  France,  Marguerite,  Duchesse 
d'Alengon,  and  a  whole  galaxy  of  royal  per- 
sonages, including  Louis  XIV.,  and  Gaston 
d 'Orleans. 

On  the  Monday  of  Pentecost  all  Provence, 
it  would  seem,  comes  to  make  its  devotions  at 
this  shrine  of  Mary  Magdalen,  —  men,  women, 
and  children,  and  above  all  the  young  couples 
of  the  year,  this  pilgrimage  being  frequently 
stipulated  in  the  Provengal  marriage  con- 
tract. 

Above  the  grotto,  on  a  rocky  peak,  are  the 
remains  of  a  convent  founded  by  Charles  II., 
Comte  de  Provence.  The  view  from  its  plat- 
form is  one  of  dazzling  beauty.  Off  to  the 
southwest  lies  Marseilles,  with  the  great  golden 
statue  of  Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde  well  denned 
against  the  blue  of  the  sea ;  the  fitang  de  Berre 
scintillates  directly  to  the  westward,  like  a 
great  fiery  opal,  and  still  farther  off  are  the 
mountains  of  Languedoc. 

For   many   reasons   the    journey   to    Sainte 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera  173 

Baume  should  be  made  by  all  visitors  to  Aix  or 
Marseilles  who  have  the  time,  and  inclination, 
to  know  something  of  the  countryside  as  well  as 
of  the  towns. 


PART  II. 

THE  REAL  RIVIERA 


CHAPTER   I. 

MAKSEILLES   TO   TOULON 

The  coast  just  east  of  Marseilles  is  quite 
unknown  to  the  general  Riviera  traveller,  al- 
though it  is  accessible,  varied,  and  an  admira- 
ble foretaste  of  the  beauties  of  the  Riviera 
itself. 

Just  over  the  great  bald-faced  peak  of  Mount 
Carpiagne  lie  Cassis  and  the  Bee  de  1  'Aigle,  the 
virtual  beginning  of  the  wonderful  scenic  pano- 
rama of  the  Riviera. 

One  would  have  expected  that  as  time  went 
on  Carsicus  Portus  of  the  Romans,  the  present 
Cassis,  would  have  exceeded  Marseilles  in  mag- 
nitude, for  its  situation  was  much  in  its  favour. 
Great  treasure-laden  ships  from  the  Orient 
would  have  avoided  doubling  the  rocky  promon- 
tory which  stretches  seaward  between  Mar- 
seilles and  Cassis,  and  thereby  saved  the  worry 
of  many  ever-present  dangers.  This  was  not 
to  be,  however,  and  Marseilles  has  grown  at 
the  expense  of  its  better  situated  rival.    Cassis, 

177 


178  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

however,  was  a  port  of  refuge  to  ships  coining 
from  the  East,  and  on  more  than  one  occasion 
they  put  in  here  and  landed  their  cargoes, 
which  were  sent  overland  to  the  already  firmly 
established  trading  colony  at  Marseilles. 

The  origin  of  the  name  is  doubtful.  It  seems 
plausible  enough  that  it  may  have  come  from 
the  old  Provencal  classis,  a  filet  or  net,  from 
the  use  of  this  in  the  fishing  which  was  carried 
on  here  extensively  in  times  past. 

Some  supposedly  ancient  quays,  which  may 
have  dated  from  Roman  times,  were  discov- 
ered in  the  eighteenth  century,  but  the  present 
port  and  its  quays  were  constructed  under  the 
orders  of  Louis  XIII. 

The  present  fishing  industry  of  Cassis  is  not 
very  considerable,  it  being  far  less  than  that 
of  Martigues  or  Port  de  Bouc.  At  Cassis  there 
are  but  half  a  hundred  men  engaged,  and  the 
returns,  as  given  in  a  recent  year,  were  scarcely 
over  eleven  hundred  francs  per  capita,  which 
is  not  a  great  wage  for  a  toiler  of  the  sea. 

Another  harvest  of  the  sea,  little  practised 
to-day,  but  formerly  much  more  remunerative, 
is  the  gathering  of  a  variety  of  coral  which 
quite  equals  that  of  Italy  or  Dalmatia.  This 
industry  has  of  late  grown  less  and  less  impor- 
tant here,  as  elsewhere,  for  the  Italians,  Greeks, 


Marseilles  to  Toulon  179 

and  Maltese  have  so  scraped  over  the  bottom 
of  the  Mediterranean  with  their  great  hooked 
tridents  that  but  little  coral  is  now  found. 

Cassis  figures  in  a  story  connected  with  the 
great  plague  or  pest  which  befell  Marseilles 
in  the  eighteenth  century.  Pope  Clement  XI. 
had  sent  to  the  Monseigneur  de  Belsunce  a 
cargo  of  wheat  to  be  distributed  among  the 
famished  of  Marseilles  or  elsewhere,  "  comme 
il  le  jug er ait  a  propos."  In  December,  1720, 
a  fleet  of  tartanes, —  the  same  lateen-rigged 
ships  which  one  sees  engaged  to-day  in  the 
open-sea  fishing  industry  of  Martigues, — 
bringing  the  wheat  to  the  stricken  city,  was 
forced  to  anchor  in  the  Golfe  des  Leques,  just 
offshore  from  the  little  port  of  Cassis,  "  par 
suite  de  la  violente  mistral  qui  balayait  la 
mer."  The  same  mistral  sweeps  the  seas 
around  Marseilles  to-day,  and  works  all  sorts 
of  disaster  to  small  craft  if  they  do  not  take 
shelter. 

When  the  tartanes  were  discovered  off  Cas- 
sis, the  famishing  sailor-folk  of  the  town  hesi- 
tated not  a  moment  to  put  off  and  board  them. 
The  papal  tartane  attempted  to  parley  with 
them,  but  every  vessel  in  the  fleet  was  attacked 
in  true  Barbary-pirate  fashion  and  captured; 
and  the  entire  consignment  was  seized  and  dis- 


180  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

tributed  among  the  distressed  people  of  Cassis 
and  the  surrounding  country.  The  '  •  pirates, ' ' 
however,  paid  the  Archbishop  of  Marseilles  the 
full  value  of  the  shij:>inent,  "  comme  c'etait 
justice."  Mgr.  de  Belsunce,  "  coming  to  Cas- 
sis on  donkeyback,"  brought  back  the  money 
and  founded  a  school  for  both  sexes  with  the 
capital,  besides  giving  to  the  poor  of  the  town 
an  annual  sum  equal  to  the  interest  on  the  prin- 
cipal. Whether  this  was  a  case  of  "  heaping 
coals  of  fire  "  on  the  delinquent  heads,  or  not, 
history  does  not  say. 

Cassis  is  the  native  city  of  the  Abbe  Bar- 
thelemy,  a  savant  who,  amid  the  constant  study 
of  ancient  and  modern  Greek,  Latin,  Hebrew, 
Syriac,  Chaldean,  and  Arabic,  found  time  to 
write  the  "  Voyage  du  Jeune  Anacharsis  en 
Grece,"  a  work  which  has  placed  his  name  high 
in  the  roll  of  writers  who  have  produced  epoch- 
making  literature. 

Cassis  is  the  perfect  type  of  the  small  Medi- 
terranean port.  High  above  the  houses  of  its 
nineteen  hundred  inhabitants,  on  the  apex  of 
a  wooded,  red-rock  hill,  are  the  ruins  of  a  cha- 
teau. To  the  east  is  the  grim  and  gray  Cap, 
a  mountain  of  considerable  pretensions,  while 
to  the  west  is  Pointe  Pin,  a  height  of  perhaps 
fifteen  hundred  metres  sloping  gently  down  to 


to 

c3 


Marseilles  to  Toulon  181 


the  sea,  and  covered  with  scrub-pines  save  for 
occasional  granite  outcrops. 

Cassis  is  a  highly  industrious  little  town, 
now  mostly  given  over  to  the  manufacture  of 
cement,  the  coastwise  shipping  of  which  gives 
a  perpetual  liveliness  to  the  port.  The  fishing, 
too,  though,  as  before  said,  not  very  consid- 
erable, results  in  a  constant  traffic  with  the 
wharves  of  Marseilles,  where  the  product  is 
sold. 

The  white  wine  of  Cassis,  a  "  vrai  vin  par- 
fume/'  which  in  another  day  was  produced 
much  more  extensively  than  now,  is  as  much 
the  proper  thing  to  drink  with  bouillabaisse 
and  les  coquillages  as  in  the  north  are  Chablis 
and  Graves  with  oysters  and  lobsters. 

The  vin  de  Cassis  is  like  the  wine  of  which 
Keats  wrote: 

"  So  fine  that  it  fills  one's  mouth  with  gush- 
ing freshness,  —  that  goes  down  cool  and  fever- 
less,  and  does  not  quarrel  with  your  liver,  ly- 
ing as  quiet  as  it  did  in  the  grape." 

The  sheltering  headland  which  rises  high 
above  Cassis  is  known  as  Le  Gibel.  On  its 
highest  peak  the  poet  Mistral  has  placed  the 
retreat  of  the  heroine  Esteulle  in  his  poem 
"  Calandau."  Black  and  menacing,  Cap  Ca- 
naille continues  Le  Gibel  out  toward  the  sea, 


182  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

and  its  sheer  rise  above  the  Mediterranean  ap- 
proximates five  hundred  metres. 

On  the  opposite  bank  of  a  little  bay,  called 
in  Provencal  a  calanque,  rises  the  ruined  tow- 
ers and  walls  of  a  feudal  chateau,  of  no  inter- 
est except  that  it  forms  a  grim  contrasting  note 
with  the  blue  background  of  sky  above  and  sea 
below. 

A  little  farther  on,  sheltered  at  the  head  of 
a  calanque,  is  Port  Miou,  which  has  a  legend 
that  has  made  it  a  popular  place  of  pilgrimage 
for  the  Marseillais.  The  little  port  is  well  shel- 
tered in  the  bay,  with  the  entrance  nearly  closed 
by  a  great  sentinel  rock,  which  is,  at  times, 
wholly  submerged  by  the  waves.  It  is  this 
which  has  given  rise  to  the  legend  that  a  Gen- 
oese fisherman,  surprised  by  a  tempest  and 
being  unable  to  control  his  craft,  abandoned 
the  tiller  and  would  have  hurled  himself  into 
the  sea  if  his  son,  obeying  a  sudden  inspiration, 
had  not  steered  the  boat  through  the  narrow 
strait  and  came  to  a  safe  harbour  within.  The 
father  at  once  fell  upon  the  boy,  killing  him 
with  a  blow;  but,  Providence  taking  no  re- 
venge, the  boat  drifted  on  to  a  safe  anchorage. 

The  story  is  not  a  new  one ;  the  same  legend, 
with  variations,  is  heard  in  many  parts  of 
western  Europe  and  as  far  north  as  Norway, 


Marseilles  to  Toulon  183 

but  it  is  potent  enough  here  to  draw  crowds 
of  Sunday  holiday-makers,  in  the  summer 
months,  from  Marseilles. 

In  1377  Pope  Gregory  XL,  who  desired  to 
reestablish  the  papacy  at  Rome  after  its  sev- 
enty years  at  Avignon,  took  ship  at  Marseilles, 
but  was  held  back  by  contrary  winds  and  seas 
and  hovered  about  the  little  archipelago  of 
islands  at  the  harbour's  mouth,  until  finally, 
when  he  had  at  last  got  well  started  on  his  way, 
a  furious  tempest  arose  and  the  vessel  forced 
to  anchor  in  the  calanque  of  Port  Miou,  called 
by  the  historian  of  the  voyage  Portus  Milonis. 

Beyond  Cassis,  eastward,  are  still  to  be 
traced  the  outlines  of  the  old  Roman  road  which 
led  into  Gaul  from  Rome,  via  Pisa  and  Genoa, 
until  it  finally  passes  Ceyreste,  the  ancient 
Citharista.  The  name  was  originally  given  to 
the  site  because  of  the  chain  of  hills  at  the  back, 
which  formed  a  sort  of  a  tiara  (citharista  sig- 
nifying tiara  or  crown) ,  of  which  the  little  city 
formed  the  bright  particular  jewel.  It  must 
have  been  one  of  the  first  health  resorts  of 
the  Mediterranean  shore,  for  Caesar  founded 
here  a  hospital  for  sick  soldiers.  Since  that 
day  it  appears  to  have  been  neglected  by  the 
invalids  (real  and  fancied),  for  they  go  to 
Monte   Carlo  to  live   the  same  life  of  social 


184  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


diversion  that  goes  on  at  Paris,  Vienna,  or 
New  York. 

Another  explanation  of  the  origin  of  the 
city's  name  is  that  it  was  dedicated  to  Apollo, 
the  god  of  music,  and  that  its  name  came  from 
the  cithare,  or  zither,  which,  according  to  those 
learned  in  mythology,  the  god  always  bore. 

Ceyreste,  at  all  events,  was  of  Grecian  origin 
as  to  its  name,  and  was  perhaps  the  patrician 
suburb  of  La  Ciotat,  the  city  of  sailors  and 
merchants.  Unlike  most  plutocratic  towns, 
Ceyreste  appears  always  to  have  had  a  due 
regard  for  the  proprieties,  for  a  French  his- 
torian has  written:  "  II  est  de  notoriete  pub- 
lique  que  jamais  aucun  Ceyresteen  n'a  subi  de 
peine  infamante,  ni  meme  afflictive.  Jamais 
aucun  crime  n'a  ete  commis  dans  la  com- 
mune! " 

Ceyreste  must  console  itself  with  these  mem- 
ories of  a  glorious  past,  for  to-day  it  is  but  a 
minute  commune  of  but  a  few  hundred  souls, 
most  of  whom  have  attached  themselves  in  their 
daily  pursuits  to  the  busy  industrial  La  Ciotat. 

The  railway  issues  from  the  Tunnel  de  Cas- 
sis, through  olive-groves  and  great  sculptured 
rocks,  on  the  shores  of  the  wonderful  Baie  de 
la  Ciotat,  flanked  on  one  side  by  a  rocky  prom- 
ontory and  on  the  other,  the  west,  by  the  Bee 


Marseilles  to  Toulon 


185 


de    l'Aigle,    a    queer    beak-shaped    projection 
which  well  lives  up  to  its  name. 

The  bay  of  La  Ciotat  is  the  first  radiant 
vision  which  one  has  of  a  Mediterranean  golfe, 
as  he  comes  from  the  north  or  east.  Things 
have    changed    to-day,    and    the    considerable 


e*s- 


La  Ciotat  and  the  Bee  de  l'Aigle 

commerce  of  former  times  has  already  shrunk 
to  infinitesimal  proportions,  though  to  take  its 
place  the  port  has  become  the  location  of  the 
vast  ship-building  works  of  the  ' '  Cie.  des  Mes- 
sageries-Maritimes, "  whose  three  or  four  thou- 
sand workmen  have  taken  away  most  of  the 
local  Mediterranean  wealth  of  colour  which 
many  a  less  progressive  place  has  in  abun- 
dance.    Accordingly  La  Ciotat  is  no  place  to 


186  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

tarry,  though  unquestionably  it  is  a  place  to 
visit,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  that  wonderful 
first  impression  that  one  gets  of  its  bay. 

It  was  a  fortunate  day  for  the  prosperity 
of  La  Ciotat  when  the  engineers  and  directors 
of  the  great  steamship  company  founded  its 
vast  workshops  here.  To  be  sure  they  do  not 
add  much  to  the  romantic  aspect  of  this  charm- 
ingly situated  coast  town;  but  men  must  live, 
and  great  ocean  liners  must  be  built  somewhere 
near  salt  water. 

The  prosperity  of  La  Ciotat,  the  ville  des 
ouvriers,  has  grown  up  mostly  from  its  traffic 
by  sea,  the  railway  stopping  at  an  elevation 
of  some  two  hundred  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  quays.  The  traveller  makes  his  way  by 
a  little  branch  train,  but  heavy  merchandise 
for  the  ship-building  yards  is  still  brought  first 
to  Marseilles  and  then  transhipped  by  boat. 

Ship-building  was  one  of  the  ancient  occupa- 
tions of  the  people  of  La  Ciotat,  hence  it  is 
natural  enough  to  hear  some  old  workman, 
who  has  become  incapacitated  by  time,  say: 
"  N'est-il  pas  naturel  que  La  Ciotat  soutienne 
son  antique  reputation  en  construisant  de  bons 
bateaux?  " 

For  a  long  time  it  was  the  grand  ship-build- 
ing yard  of  the  Marseillais,  who  obtained  here 


Marseilles  to  Toulon  187 

all  their  ships  to  "  faire  la  caravane,"  as  the 
voyage  to  the  Levant  was  called  in  olden  times. 

La  Ciotat  was  perhaps  the  Burgus  Civitatis 
of  the  itinerary  of  Antony,  but  in  time  it  came 
to  be  known  —  in  the  Catalan  tongue  —  as 
Bort  de  Nostre  Cieuta,  and  it  is  so  given  in 
an  ancient  charter  which  conceded  certain 
rights  to  the  Marseillais. 

In  1365  La  Ciotat  passed  to  the  monks  of  the 
Abbey  of  St.  Victor,  but  for  a  short  time  it  was 
in  the  possession  of  the  Catalans,  who  were  the 
partisans  of  the  Antipope  Pierre  de  Luna. 
Few  towns  of  its  size  in  all  France  have  had 
so  varied  a  career  as  La  Ciotat,  until  it  finally 
settled  down  to  the  more  or  less  prosaic  affairs 
of  later  years.  Forty  families  formed  its  first 
population,  but,  in  the  reign  of  Francois  L, 
its  population  was  twelve  thousand  or  more, 
a  number  which  has  not  perceptibly  increased 
since. 

During  the  pest  of  1720,  which  fell  so  hard 
upon  Marseilles,  and  indeed  upon  nearly  all 
of  the  ports  of  maritime  Provence,  La  Ciotat 
was  saved  from  the  affection  by  the  observance 
of  a  stringent  quarantine.  To  a  great  extent 
this  was  due  to  the  prudence  and  fearlessness 
of  the  women.  All  entrance  to  the  city  was 
rigorously  refused  to  strangers,  and,  when  the 


188  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


troops  from  the  garrison  at  Marseilles  were 
sent  here  that  they  might  be  quartered  in  a 
place  of  safety,  the  women  armed  themselves 
with  sticks  and  stones  and  formed  a  barrier, 
dehors  des  murs,  and  drove  the  soldiery  off 
as  if  they  had  been  an  attacking  foe.  This  is 
one  of  those  Amazonian  feats  which  prove  the 
valour  of  the  women  of  other  days. 

La  Ciotat  was  frequently  attacked  by  the 
Barbary  pirates  before  these  vermin  were 
swept  from  the  seas  by  the  intervention  of  the 
two  great  republics,  France  and  the  United 
States.  The  English,  too,  attacked  the  intrepid 
little  town,  and  there  are  brave  tales  of  the 
valour  of  the  inhabitants  when  bombarded  by 
the  guns  of  the  Seahorse  in  1818. 

Directly  in  front  of  La  Ciotat,  at  the  foot  of 
the  Cote  de  Saint  Cyr,  on  the  eastern  shore 
of  the  bay,  was  an  old  Greek  colony  known  to 
geographers  as  Tauroentum.  Rich  and  power- 
ful in  its  own  right,  Tauroentum  rivalled  its 
neighbour  Marseilles,  but  the  fleets  of  Pompey 
and  Caesar  had  one  of  those  old-time  sea-fights 
off  its  quays,  and  the  city,  having  suffered 
greatly  at  the  time,  never  recovered  its  pros- 
perity, and  the  more  opulent  and  powerful  Mar- 
seilles became  the  metropolis  for  all  time.  The 
monumental  remains  to  be  observed  to-day  are 


Marseilles  to  Toulon  189 

mostly  covered  with  the  sands  of  time,  and  only 
the  antiquarian  and  archaeologist  will  get  pleas- 
ure or  satisfaction  from  any  fragmentary  evi- 
dences which  may  be  unearthed.  The  subject 
is  a  vast  and  most  interesting  one,  no  doubt, 
but  the  enthusiast  in  such  matters  is  referred 
to  Lentheric's  great  work  on  "La  Provence 
Maritime. ' ' 

La  Ciotat,  with  its  workmen's  houses  and 
its  shipyard,  will  not  detain  one  long.  One 
will  be  more  interested  in  making  his  way  east- 
ward along  the  coast,  when  every  kilometre 
will  open  up  new  splendours  of  landscape. 

Opposite  La  Ciotat  is  the  hamlet  of  Les 
Leques,  well  sheltered  in  the  bay  of  the  same 
name.  Lamartine,  en  route  for  the  Orient, 
compared  it  with  enthusiasm  to  the  Bay  of 
Naples,  a  simile  which  has  been  used  with  re- 
gard to  many  another  similar  spot,  but  hardly 
with  as  much  of  appropriateness  as  here.  Said 
Lamartine:  "  C'est  un  de  ces  nombreux  chefs- 
d'ceuvre  que  Dieu  a  repandus  part  out." 

From  Les  Leques  it  is  but  a  step  to  Bandol, 
a  place  not  mentioned  in  the  note-books  of 
many  travellers,  though  to  the  French  it  is 
already  recognized  as  a  "  station  hivernale  et 
de  bains  de  mer."  This  is  a  pity,  for  it  will 
soon  go  the  way  of  the  other  resorts. 


190  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

Bandol  is  a  small  town  of  the  Var,  possessed 
of  a  remarkably  beautiful  and  sheltered  site, 
and,  since  it  numbers  but  a  trifle,  over  two 
thousand  souls,  and  has  no  palace  hotels  as 
yet,  it  may  well  be  accounted  as  one  of  the 
places  on  the  beaten  track  of  Riviera  travel 
which  has  not  yet  become  wholly  spoiled. 

Bandol's  principal  business  is  the  growing 
of  immortelles  and  artichokes,  with  enough  of 
the  fishing  industry  to  give  a  liveliness  and 
picturesqueness  to  the  wharves  of  the  little 
port. 

It  is  a  wonderfully  warm  corner  of  the 
littoral,  here  in  the  immediate  environs  of  Ban- 
dol, and  palms,  banana-trees,  the  eucalyptus, 
and  many  other  subtropical  shrubs  and  plants 
thrive  exceedingly.  There  is  nothing  of  the 
rigour  of  winter  to  blight  this  warm  little  cor- 
ner; only  the  mistral  —  which  is  everywhere 
(Monaco  perhaps  excepted) — or  its  equally 
wicked  brother,  le  vent  d'est,  ever  makes  dis- 
agreeable a  visit  to  this  warm-welcoming  little 
coast  town. 

A  clock-tower,  or  belfry,  an  old  chateau,  — 
the  construction  of  Vauban,  —  and  a  jetty, 
which  throws  out  its  long  tentacle-like  arm  to 
sea,  make  up  the  chief  architectural  monuments 
of  the  town. 


Marseilles  to  Toulon  191 

Not  so  theatrical  or  stagy  as  Monte  Carlo 
or  even  Hyeres,  or  as  overrun  with  "  swal- 
lows "  as  Nice  or  Menton,  Bandol  has  much 
that  these  places  lack,  and  lacks  a  great  deal 
that  they  have,  but  which  one  is  glad  to  be 
without  if  he  wants  to  hibernate  amid  new 
and  unruffling  surroundings. 

Very  good  wines  are  made  from  the  grapes 
which  grow  on  the  neighbouring  hillsides ;  rich 
red  wines,  most  of  which  are  sold  as  Port  to 
not  too  inquisitive  buyers.  The  industry  is  not 
as  flourishing  as  it  once  was,  though  the  in- 
habitants —  some  two  hundred  or  more  —  who 
used  to  be  engaged  in  the  coopering  trade,  still 
hope  that,  phcenix-like,  it  will  rise  again  to 
prosperity.  What  the  culture  once  was,  and 
what  picturesque  elements  it  possessed,  art- 
lovers,  and  others,  may  judge  for  themselves 
by  the  contemplation  of  the  celebrated  canvas 
by  Joseph  Vernet,  now  in  the  Louvre  at  Paris. 

The  fishermen  of  Bandol  find  the  industry 
more  profitable  than  do  many  others  in  the 
small  towns  to  the  eastward  of  Marseilles,  and, 
accordingly,  they  are  more  prominent  in  the 
daily  life  which  goes  on  in  the  markets  and  on 
the  quays.  Their  catch  runs  the  whole  gamut 
of  the  poissons  de  M  edit  er  ranee,  including  a 
unique    species    called   the    St.    Pierre,   whose 


192  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


bones  somewhat  resemble  the  instruments  of 
the  Passion. 

Three  thousand  cases  of  immortelles  are 
gathered  each  year  from  the  hillsides  and 
shipped  to  all  parts,  the  crop  having  a  value 
of  more  than  a  hundred  thousand  francs. 

Bandol  is  the  centre  of  the  manufacture  of 
couronnes  d 'immortelles  in  France.  The  little 
yellow  flowers  literally  clog  the  narrow  streets 
of  the  town  away  from  the  waterside.  The 
warm  zone  in  which  Bandol  is  situated  is  most 
favourable  to  the  growth  of  the  plant,  which, 
according  to  the  botanists,  originally  came 
from  Crete  and  Malta.  The  natives  of  Bandol 
say  that  it  originated  with  them,  or  at  least 
with  their  pays. 

A  hot,  dry  soil  is  necessary  to  their  growth, 
and  they  are  at  their  best  in  June  and  July, 
when  their  golden  yellow  tufts  literally  cover 
the  hillsides;  that  is,  all  that  are  not  covered 
by  narcissi.  The  flora  of  Bandol  is  most  varied 
and  abundant,  but  these  two  flowers  predom- 
inate. 

The  culture  of  the  immortelle  is  simple.  In 
February  or  March  the  plants  are  set  in  the 
ground,  from  small  roots,  and  the  gathering 
commences  in  July  of  the  second  season,  after 
which  the  poor,  stripped  stalks  look  anything 


Marseilles  to  Toulon  193 


but  immortal.  Each  plant  grows  three  or  four 
score  of  stems,  each  stem  bearing  ten  to  twenty 
flowers. 

Curiously  enough  there  seems  to  be  a  diver- 
sity of  opinion  as  to  the  colour  that  a  crown 
of  immortelles  shall  take.  Not  all  of  them  are 
sent  out  in  the  golden  colour  nature  gave  them. 
Some  are  dyed  purple  and  others  black,  and 
then,  indeed,  all  their  beauty  has  departed. 
The  natives  think  so,  too,  but  dealers  in  funeral 
supplies  in  Paris,  Lyons,  and  Marseilles  — 
who  have  about  the  worst  artistic  sense  of  any 
class  of  Frenchmen  who  ever  lived  —  have  got 
the  idea  that  their  clients  like  variety,  and 
that  bright  yellow  is  too  gay  for  a  symbol  of 
mourning. 

Bandol  sits  in  a  great  amphitheatre  sur- 
rounded by  wooded  hillsides  set  out  here  and 
there  with  plantations  of  olive  and  mulberry 
trees  and  vines. 

Harvest  loads  of  grapes  and  olives  form  the 
chief  characteristics  of  the  traffic  by  the  high- 
ways and  byways  throughout  Provence,  but  in 
no  section  are  they  more  brilliant  and  gay  with 
colour  than  along  the  coast  from  Marseilles 
to  Hyeres. 

Banclol  is  thought  to  have  been  one  of  those 
numerous  nameless  ports  referred  to  by  the 


194  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

Roman  historians,  but  it  is  necessary  to  arrive 
at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century  to  find  any 
mention  of  it  by  name.  Nostradamus  recounts 
that  a  certain  Capitaine  Boyer  of  Ollioules, 
who  had  rendered  great  service  to  the  king 
during  the  troubles  with  the  League,  was  given 
"  en  fief  et  a  paye-morte,  a  luy  et  a  sa  posterite, 
le  fort  de  Bendort  (Bandol),  situe  au  bord  de 
la  mer." 

Later  this  same  Boyer  was  appointed  gov- 
ernor of  the  Chateau  de  la  Garde  at  Marseilles, 
and  received,  in  addition,  certain  valuable 
rights  connected  with  the  tunny  fishing  on  the 
Provencal  coasts,  which  enterprise  ultimately 
placed  him  in  a  position  of  great  affluence. 

The  old  chateau  of  Bandol,  built  on  a  bed 
of  basalt,  has  the  following  pleasant  mot  con- 
nected with  it: 

"  Le  gouverneur  de  cette  roche, 
Retournant  un  jour  par  le  coche, 
A,  depuis  environ  quinze  ans, 
Emporte  la  cl6  dans  sa  poche." 

Ten  kilometres  beyond  Bandol  is  Ollioules, 
which  is  mentioned  in  the  guide-books  as  being 
the  gateway  to  the  celebrated  Gorges  d 'Olli- 
oules, which,  like  most  gorges  and  canons,  is 
of  surprising  spectacular  beauty.  This  is  a 
classic  excursion  for  the  residents  of  Toulon, 


Marseilles  to  Toulon  195 

who  on  Sunday  flock  to  the  site  of  this  tortuous 
savage  gorge,  and  breathe  in  some  of  those 
same  delights  which  a  mountaineer  finds  in  a 
deep-cut  canon  in  the  Eockies.  There  is  noth- 
ing so  very  stupendous  about  this  gorge,  but 
it  looks  well  in  a  photograph,  and  satisfies  the 
Toulonais  to  their  highest  expectations,  and  al- 
together is  a  very  satisfactory  sort  of  a  ravine, 
if  one  does  not  care  for  the  beauties  of  the 
coast-line  itself,  —  which  is  what  most  of  us 
come  to  the  Mediterranean  for. 

Ollioules  itself  is  of  far  more  attraction,  to 
the  lover  of  picturesque  old  streets  and  houses 
and  crumbling  historical  monuments,  than  its 
gorge.  The  town  bears  still  the  true  stamp 
of  the  middle  ages,  though  the  inhabitants  will 
tell  you  that  it  has  great  hopes  of  becoming 
some  day  a  popular  resort  like  Nice,  this  being 
the  future  to  which  all  the  small  Eiviera  towns 
aspire. 

Old  vaulted  streets,  leaning  porched  houses, 
with  enormous  gables  and  delicately  sculptured 
corbels  and  window-frames,  give  quite  the 
effect  of  medievalism  to  Ollioules,  though  a 
hooting  tram  from  Toulon  makes  a  false  note 
which  is  for  ever  sounding  in  one's  ears. 

All  the  same,  Ollioules,  with  the  debris  of  its 
thirteenth-century  chateau,  its  very  consider. 


196  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

able  remains  of  city  wall,  and  its  Place,  tree- 
shaded  by  high-growing  palms,  is  a  town  to  be 
loved,  by  one  jaded  with  the  round  of  resorts, 
for  its  many  and  varied  old-world  attrac- 
tions. 

Ollioules  is  built  in  the  open  air,  at  the  end 
of  the  defile  or  gorge,  in  the  midst  of  a  coun- 
try glowing  with  all  the  splendour  and  beauty 
of  endless  beds  of  hyacinths  and  narcissi,  flow- 
ers which  rank  among  the  most  beautiful  in 
all  the  world,  and  which  here,  in  this  corner 
of  old  Provence,  grow  as  luxuriantly  as  heather 
on  the  hills  of  Scotland  or  tulips  in  Holland. 
Violets,  poppies,  the  mimosa,  and  tuberoses 
are  also  here  in  abundance. 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  hectares,  or  more,  in 
the  immediate  vicinity  of  Ollioules,  are  devoted 
to  the  culture  of  bulbs,  and  five  million  bulbs 
form  an  average  crop,  most  of  which  is  sent 
away  by  rail  to  Belgium,  Holland  (tell  it  not 
to  a  Dutchman),  and  England. 

The  origin  of  the  name  of  the  town  is  pecul- 
iar, as  indeed  is  the  derivation  of  many  place- 
names.  Savants  think  that  it  comes  from  ole- 
arium,  meaning  a  place  where  oil  was  made 
and  stored.  This  may  be  so,  but  olive-oil  does 
not  figure  any  more  among  the  products  of  this 
particular  petit  pays. 


Marseilles  to  Toulon  197 

Not  only  the  rock-bound  gorge  but  the  whole 
basin  of  Ollioules  is  a  wonderland  of  exotic 
and  rare  natural  beauties.  On  one  side,  to  the 
north,  rise  the  volcanic  heights  of  Evenos, 
crowned  to-day  with  ruins  which  may  be  Sara- 
cenic, or  gallo-romain,  or  prehistoric,  perhaps, 
—  it  is  impossible  to  tell. 

George  Sand  has  written  with  great  appre- 
ciation of  the  whole  neighbouring  region  in 
"  Tamaris,"  but  even  her  graphic  pen  has  not 
been  able  to  reproduce  the  charming  and  dis- 
tinguished characteristics  of  a  region  which, 
even  to-day,  is  little  or  not  at  all  known  to  the 
great  mass  of  tourists  who  annually  rush  to 
the  Riviera  resorts  from  all  parts  of  America 
and  Europe.  "  Tant  pis,"  then,  as  Sterne  said, 
but  the  way  is  here  made  plain  for  any  who 
would  go  slowly  over  this  well-worn  road  of 
histor>  and  cast  a  glance  up  and  down  the 
cross-roads  as  he  comes  to  them. 

The  distance  is  not  great  from  Marseilles  to 
Hyeres,  but  eighty  kilometres,  a  little  over  fifty 
miles;  but  there  is  a  wealth  of  interest  to  be 
had  from  a  silent  threading  of  the  roadways  of 
this  delightful  corner  of  maritime  Provence 
which  the  partakers  of  conventional  tours  know 
nothing  of. 

Here  in  the  environs  of  Ollioules,  on  the  hill- 


198  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

sides  flanking  its  celebrated  gorge,  is  found  in 
profusion  the  fleur  d'or,  famed  in  the  verses 
of  Provencal  poets.  Francois  Delille,  one  of 
the  followers  of  the  Felibres,  in  his  "  Fleur 
de  Provence/'  has  sung  its  praises  in  unap- 
proachable fashion,  and  there  are  some  other 
fragment  verses  by  a  poet  whose  name  has 
been  forgotten,  which  seem  worth  quoting,  since 
they  recount  an  incident  which  may  happen  to 
any  one  who  journeys  by  road  along  the  coast 
of  Provence: 

Le  Voyageur  au   Voiturin. 

"  Arrete  ton  cheval,  saute  a  bas,  raon  vieux  faune  : 
Et  va,  bon  voiturin,  du  cote  de  la  mer ; 
Sur  le  bord  de  cette  anse  ou  le  not  est  si  clair, 
Coupe,  dans  les  rochers,  coupe  cette  fleur  jaune." 

Le  Voiturin. 
"  C'est  une  fleur  sauvage,  O  seigneur  stranger. 
La-bas  nous  trouverons  des  bouquets  d'oranger." 

Le  Voyageur. 
"  Non  1  laisse  l'oranger  embaumer  le  rivage, 
Pour  ces  parfums  si  doux  je  suis  barbare  encore, 
Mais  sur  ma  terre  aussi  poussent  les  landiers  d'or 
Et  j'aime  la  senteur  de  cette  fleur  sauvage  I  " 

Such  is  the  charm  of  the  ajonc,  "  la  fleur 
d'or  de  Provence/' 

Beyond  Ollioules  is  St.  Nazaire-du-Var,  a 
tiny  port  which  resembles  in  many  ways  that 


St.  Nazaire-du-Var 


Marseilles  to  Toulon  199 

of  Bandol.  It  has  some  of  the  aspects  of  a 
station  des  bains,  in  the  summer  months,  for 
it  has  a  fine  beach.  The  railways  and  the  guide- 
books apparently  have  little  knowledge  of  St. 
Nazaire  for  they  call  it  Sanary,  after  the  old 
Provencal  name.  The  present  authorities  of 
the  really  attractive  little  town  are  doing  their 
best  to  keep  pace  with  the  march  of  progress, 
and  there  are  hotels,  more  or  less  grand,  elec- 
tric lights,  and  tram-cars. 

The  little  port  is  exceedingly  picturesque, 
and  its  quays  are  always  animated  with  the 
comings  and  goings  of  a  hundred  or  more  fish- 
ing-boats, which  of  themselves  smack  nothing 
of  modernity.  The  motor-boat  has  not  yet 
taken  the  picturesqueness  out  of  the  life  of 
these  hardy  fishermen  of  yore,  though  it  is 
slowly  making  its  way  in  some  parts. 

In  reality  St.  Nazaire-du-Var  exists  no  more. 
The  development  of  St.  Nazaire-de-Bretagne 
overshadowed  its  less  opulent  namesake  and 
took  most  of  the  mail-matter  addressed  to  the 
little  Provencal  port.  The  inhabitants  of  the 
latter  protested  and  addressed  who  ever  has 
the  making  and  changing  of  place-names  in 
France  to  be  allowed  to  adopt  its  ancient  patro- 
nymic of  Sanary. 

Some   day  a  "  Club   Prive,"   and   "  Prom- 


200  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

enades,"  and  "  Places,"  and  "  Squares  "  will 
come,  and  an  effort  will  be  made  to  stop  the 
flood  of  English  and  American  and  German 
tourists,  who  are  appropriating  nearly  every 
beauty-spot  on  the  Riviera  where  there  is  a 
post-office  and  a  telegraph  station. 

Above,  on  a  hill  to  the  eastward,  is  a  chapel 
dedicated  to  Notre  Dame  de  Pitie,  greatly  ven- 
erated by  the  fishermen  and  sailors  of  the  town, 
but  mostly  remembered  by  travellers  for  the 
very  remarkable  outlook  which  is  to  be  had  from 
the  platform  of  its  great  square  tower.  With 
its  rectangular  little  houses  glistening  white  in 
the  sunlight,  and  red  hoofs,  and  great  towering 
palms  and  eucalyptus,  St.  Nazaire  resembles  a 
great  flowering  bouquet,  and  when  the  simile 
is  carried  further,  and  the  bouquet  is  tied 
up  with  a  waving  ribbon  of  yellow  sand,  and 
placed  in  a  broad  blue  vase  of  the  sea,  the  pic- 
ture is  one  which,  once  seen,  will  be  unforget- 
table. 

Toward  the  horizon  is  seen  a  cone  which 
bears  the  enigmatical  name  of  Six-Fours. 
More  majestic  is  Cap  Sicie,  which  breaks  the 
waves  of  the  Mediterranean  into  myriads  of 
flakes,  and  gives  a  warning  to  the  ships  lying 
in  the  basins  at  Marseilles  that  the  sea  is  rising, 
and  that  one  of  those  intermittent  tempests, 


Marseilles  to  Toulon  201 

for  which  the  Golfe  de  Lyon  is  noted,  is  due. 
Cap  Negre  lies  farther  in,  a  black  basalt  wall 
which  gives  an  accent  of  sombreness  to  the 
otherwise  gay  picture. 


CHAPTER   II. 

OVER   CAP   SICIE 

The  great  promontory  of  Cap  Sicie  is  a 
peninsula,  five  kilometres  across  the  "  neck," 
and  jutting  seaward  double  that  distance. 

Just  beyond  Sanary,  or  St.  Nazaire-du-Var, 
is  the  great  Baie  de  Sanary,  snuggled  close 
under  the  promontory  height  and  forming  a 
welcome  shelter  from  the  seas  which  pile  up 
on  the  coast  from  Toulon  to  Marseilles. 

There  is  a  little  excursion  offshore  which 
one  should  make  before  he  descends  on  the 
great  arsenal  of  Toulon,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Cap ;  but  unless  the  traveller  is  forewarned 
he  is  likely  to  overlook  it  altogether,  and 
thereby  miss  what  to  many  will  be  a  new  form 
of  human  happiness. 

Travellers  to  Naples  make  the  trip  to  Ischia, 
if  they  are  not  afraid  of  earthquakes;  or  to 
Capri,  if  they  like  the  damp  of  the  grottoes; 
but  travellers  en  route  to  Toulon  may  make 
the  short  trip  to  the  lies  des  Embiez,  from  the 

202 


Over  Cap  Sicie 203 

little  haven  of  Le  Brusc,  and  have  something 
of  the  suggestion  of  both  the  former  popular 
tourist  points,  —  with  an  utter  absence  of  tour- 
ists. 

Embiez  is  not  much  of  an  island  in  point 
of  size,  and  the  map-makers  scarcely  know  it 
at  all.  One  makes  his  way  from  Le  Brusc, 
through  an  expanse  of  calm  and  limpid  water, 
on  a  flat-bottomed  sort  of  craft  which  looks 
as  though  it  might  have  degenerated  from  a 
punt. 

The  way  is  not  long ;  it  is  astonishingly  short 
for  a  sea  voyage,  and  it  is  only  with  a  previous 
knowledge  of  the  shallows  —  or,  rather,  the 
deeps  —  that  the  craft  can  find  its  way  across 
the  scarcely  hidden  banks  of  yellow  sand.  Fif- 
teen minutes  of  this  voyaging  brings  one  to 
the  isle,  and  from  its  little  jetty  a  douanier 
accosts  your  boat  to  know  if  you  have  anything 
dutiable  on  board,  as  well  as  for  your  ship's 
papers,  and  a  doctor's  certificate.  He  need 
have  no  fears,  however,  for  no  one  would  ever 
take  the  trouble  to  smuggle  anything  into  Em- 
biez. "  Nothing  doing,"  and  the  douanier  re- 
turns to  his  fishing  off  the  jetty's  end. 

The  isle  is  a  rock-surrounded  mamelon  which 
rises  to  a  height  of  some  sixty  or  seventy 
metres,  and  is  as  wild  and  savage  and  romantic 


204  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

as  the  most  imaginative  sketch  ever  outlined 
by  Do  re. 

There  is  a  fringe  of  small  white  houses,  the 
dwellings  of  the  workers  in  the  salt-works  of 
the  isle,  and  of  that  lonesome  douanier,  while 
above,  on  an  elevated  plateau,  is  the  Chateau 
de  Sabran,  which  draws  its  name  from  one  of 
the  illustrious  and  ancient  families  of  Provence. 

It  is  all  very  picturesque,  but  there  is  noth- 
ing very  archaic  about  the  chateau,  with  the 
exception  of  one  old  tower.  There  are  numer- 
ous evidences  which  point  to  the  fact  that 
some  kind  of  fortifications  were  erected  here 
in  early  times;  the  douanier  is  divided  in  his 
opinion  as  to  whether  they  were  the  work  of 
Saracens  or  Barbary  pirates,  and  the  reader 
may  take  his  choice.  At  any  rate,  there  is  an 
unspoiled  setting  right  here  at  hand  for  any 
writer  who  would  like  to  try  to  turn  out  as 
good  a  tale  as  "  Treasure  Island  "  or  "  Monte 
Cristo." 

Returning  to  the  mainland,  and  following  the 
highroad  as  it  goes  eastward  to  Toulon,  one 
comes  upon  the  curiously  named  little  town  of 
Six-Fours,  situated  on  the  very  apex  of  the 
heights. 

The  very  name  of  Six-Fours  is  enigmatic. 
It  is  certain  that  it  was  a  mountain  fortress 


Over  Cap  Sicie  205 

in  days  gone  by;  and  from  that  —  and  the 
intimation  that  there  was  once  six  forts  or 
six  towers  here  —  one  infers  that  its  name  was 
evolved  from  Six-Forts,  which  name  was  writ- 
ten in  Latin  Sex  Furni  and  finally  Six  Fours. 
Another  opinion  —  French  antiquarians,  like 
their  brethren  the  world  over,  are  prolific  in 
opinions  —  is  that  the  bizarre  name  was  that 
of  one  of  the  lieutenants  of  Caesar  engaged  in 
the  blockade  of  Marseilles.  One  named  Sextus 
Furnus,  or  Sextus  Furnis,  did  occupy  a  moun- 
tain stronghold  in  that  campaign,  and  it  may 
have  been  the  site  where  the  village  of  Six- 
Fours  now  stands. 

Six-Fours,  so  curiously  named,  and  so  little 
known  outside  its  immediate  neighbourhood, 
has  many  strange  manners  and  customs.  The 
genuine  Six-Fourneens  are  six  feet  or  more 
in  height,  and  will  not  —  or  would  not  for  a 
long  time  —  marry  any  Stranger,  by  which  term 
they  designate  all  outsiders. 

Their  speech  and  accent,  too,  are  different 
from  other  Provencaux,  and  they  have  been 
called  wild,  savage,  and  ridiculous.  This  is 
mostly  a  libel,  or  else  they  have  now  outgrown 
these  undesirable  characteristics. 

There  is  a  Christmas  custom  at  Six-Fours 
which  is  worth  noting:  a  bon  feu  (which  easily 


206  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


enough  shows  the  evolution  of  the  English  word 
bonfire)  is  lighted  in  the  street  on  Christmas 
eve  before  the  dwelling  of  the  oldest  inhab- 
itant (the  oldest  inhabitant  of  last  year's  cele- 
bration may  or  may  not  have  died,  so  there 
is  always  the  element  of  chance  to  give  zest), 
followed  by  a  collation  paid  for  by  public  sub- 
scription. As  this  repast  comes  off,  also,  in 
the  street,  the  effect  is  weirdly  amusing.  The 
children  partake,  too  (which  is  right  and 
proper),  and  "  par  permission  speciale  "  all 
are  allowed  to  eat  with  their  fingers,  as  there 
are  seldom  enough  knives  and  forks  to  go 
round. 

From  the  plateau  height  on  which  sits  this 
decayed  village  a  most  expansive  view  is  to 
be  had.  Before  one  is  the  promontory  of  Cap 
Side  plunging  abruptly  beneath  the  Mediter- 
ranean waves.  About  and  around  are  rose- 
bushes, gripping  tenaciously  the  rocky  crevices 
of  the  hills,  here  and  there  as  thickly  inter- 
woven as  chain  mail,  while  in  the  valleys  are 
occasional  little  cleared  orchards  where  the 
olive-trees  are  ranged  in  rows  like  soldiers, 
though  in  the  tree  kingdom  of  the  southland 
the  olive  is  the  dwarf,  and,  moreover,  lacks  the 
brilliant  colouring  of  the  fig  or  almond  which 
mostly  form  its  neighbours. 


Over  Cap  Sicie 207 

Off  to  the  left  are  the  roof-tops  of  La  Seyne, 
and  the  smoky  stacks  of  its  shipyards  and  fac- 
tories, while  still  farther  to  the  southeast  is 
the  combination  of  the  grime  of  Toulon  with 
that  luminous  sky  of  iridescent  Mediterranean 
blue.  It  is  ravishing,  all  this,  though  perhaps 
not  more  so  than  similar  panoramas  elsewhere 
along  the  Riviera.  On  the  whole,  their  like  is 
not  to  be  found  elsewhere  in  the  travelled 
world,  at  least  not  with  such  abundant  con- 
tributory charms. 

Six-Fours  itself  raises  its  ruins  high  in  air, 
miserable,  and  silent,  almost,  as  the  grave,  a 
mere  wraith  of  a  once  lively  and  ambitious  set- 
tlement. The  decadence  of  man  is  a  sad  thing, 
but  that  of  cities  quite  as  sad,  and  to-day  this 
ancient  domain  of  the  seigneur-abbes  of  St. 
Victor  de  Marseilles  is  as  impressive  an  ex- 
ample as  one  will  find. 

As  one  proceeds  eastward  he  opens  another 
vista  quite  unlike  any  other  view  to  be  had 
in  all  the  world.  The  great  Rade  de  Toulon, 
its  batteries  and  forts,  its  suburbs,  and  its 
environs,  all  form  an  impressive  ensemble  of 
the  work  of  nature  and  man. 

The  highroad  continues  on  toward  La  Seyne, 
the  great  ship-building  suburb,  and  another 
leads  to  Les  Sablettes  and  Tamaris,  directly 


208  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

on  the  water's  edge,  and  far  enough  removed 
from  the  smoke  and  industry  of  the  great  ar- 
senal to  belong  to  the  real  countryside. 

The  Rade  de  Toulon  is  one  of  the  joys  of  the 
Mediterranean.  Its  splendid  banks  are  cut  into 
graceful  curves,  and  the  background  of  hills 
and  mountains  makes  a  joyful  picture  indeed, 
whether  viewed  from  land  or  sea.  The  charming 
little  bays  of  its  outline  are  quite  in  harmony 
with  the  brilliant  blue  of  the  sky,  and  not  even 
the  smoke-pouring  chimneys  of  the  shipyards 
at  La  Seyne  sound  a  false  note,  but  rather  they 
accent  the  natural  beauties  to  a  still  higher 
degree. 

Away  beyond  the  Grande  Rade  are  the 
ragged  isles  of  the  archipelago  of  Hyeres, 
wave-battered  and  gleaming  in  the  sunlight, 
while  around  the  whole  nebulous  horizon  are 
effects  of  brilliant  colouring  of  land  and  sea 
hardly  to  be  equalled,  certainly  not  to  be  ex- 
celled. Wooded  peninsulas  come  down  and  jut 
out  into  the  sea,  and,  despite  the  air  of  activ- 
ity which  is  over  the  whole  neighbourhood, 
there  is  an  idyllic  charm  about  the  remote 
suburbs  which  is  indescribable. 

Guarded  seaward  by  grim  forts,  and  admi- 
rably sheltered  from  the  mistral,  which  blows 
over  its  head  and  out  to  sea,  is  Tamafis,  whose 


Fishing-boats  at  Tamaris 


Over  Cap  Sicie 209 

fame  first  started  from  a  four  months'  resi- 
dence here  of  George  Sand.  Like  Alphonse 
Karr  and  Dumas,  the  elder,  George  Sand,  if 
not  the  discoverer  of  a  new  and  unpatronized 
pied  de  terre,  gave  the  first  impetus  to  Tamaris 
as  a  resort  of  not  too  alluring  attractions,  and 
yet  all-sufficient  to  one  who  wanted  to  enjoy 
the  quietness  and  beauties  of  nature  to  a  super- 
lative degree,  all  within  a  half -hour's  journey 
of  a  great  city.  So  pleased  was  the  great 
woman  of  French  letters  that  she  laid  the  scene 
of  one  of  her  last  and  most  celebrated  romances 
here.  All  the  delicate  plants  of  a  latitude  five 
hundred  miles  farther  south  here  find  a  foot- 
hold, and  flourish  as  soon  as  they  have  become 
acclimated  and  taken  root.  Hence  it  has  be- 
come a  ' '  garden-spot, ' '  in  truth,  and  one  which 
is  too  often  neglected  by  Riviera  tourists  in 
general.  There  is  small  reason  for  this,  and 
when  one  realizes  that  Tamaris  is  a  first-class 
literary  shrine  as  well  —  for  the  dwelling  (the 
Maison  Trucy)  inhabited  by  Madame  Sand  still 
stands  —  there  is  even  less. 

The  magic  ring  of  Michel  Pacha,  the  inno- 
vator of  lighthouses  within  the  waters  of  the 
Ottoman  empire,  has  served  to  develop  and  en- 
rich a  little  corner  of  this  delightful  bit  of  the 
tropics,  and,  where  the  cypress  and  pine  once 


210  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

grew  alone,  are  now  found  palm,  orange,  and 
lemon  trees;  and  hedges  and  walls  of  the  lau- 
rier-rose  line  the  alleys  which  lead  to  the  Ori- 
ental-looking chateau  of  this  dignitary  of  the 
East.  The  effect  is  just  the  least  bit  garish 
and  out  of  place,  but  like  all  groupings  of  na- 
ture and  art  on  Mediterranean  shores,  it  is  un- 
deniably effective,  and  the  domain  all  in  all 
looks  not  unlike  a  stage  setting  for  the  "  Ara- 
bian Nights." 

Just  back  of  Tamaris  is,  or  was,  the  cele- 
brated "  Batterie  des  Hommes  Sans  Peur," 
which  so  awakened  the  interest  and  curiosity 
of  George  Sand  that  she  implored  the  authori- 
ties to  make  a  memorial  of  the  spot  forthwith, 
and  spend  less  time  digging  for  prehistoric 
remains. 

The  construction  of  the  battery  was  one  of 
the  first  great  exploits  of  the  young  Napoleon 
(1793),  which,  with  the  subsequent  taking  of 
the  Petit-Gribraltar  (as  the  present  Fort  Napo- 
leon was  then  known),  was  one  of  the  real  his- 
tory-making events  of  modern  France. 

Madame  Sand  marvelled  that  the  site  of  this 
tiny  battery  had  been  so  neglected.  It  was 
due  to  that  distinguished  lady  that  the  exact 
location  of  the  battery  was  made  known,  and, 
though  still  merely  a  ruined  earthwork,  may 


Over  Cap  Sicie  211 

be  reckoned  as  one  of  the  patriotic  souvenirs 
of  a  lurid  page  of  history. 

George  Sand  had  the  idea  of  buying  these 
twenty  metres  square  of  ground,  surrounding 
them  with  a  paling  and  making  a  path  thereto 
which  should  lead  from  the  highway.  Ulti- 
mately she  intended  to  plant  a  simple  stone 
with  the  following  inscription:  "  Ici  Reposent 
les  Hommes  Sans  Peur."  This  was  never  done, 
however,  and  so  those  only  who  have  the  mem- 
ory of  the  incident  well  within  their  grasp  ever 
even  come  across  the  site.  There  is  something 
more  than  a  legendary  grandeur  about  it  all, 
and  those  who  are  unfamiliar  with  the  incident 
had  best  refer  to  any  good  life  of  Napoleon, 
and  learn  what  really  happened  at  the  famous 
siege  of  Toulon. 

Toulon  is  about  the  best  guarded  arsenal  in 
all  the  world.  The  Caps  Mouret,  Notre  Dame 
de  la  Garde,  Sicie,  and  Sepet  play  nature's 
part,  and  play  it  well,  and  the  hand  of  man  has 
added  cannons  wherever  he  could  find  a  rest- 
ing-place for  them.  "  Canons!  encore  ca- 
nons, et  toujour s  des  canons!  "  said  a  French 
commercial  traveller  at  the  table  d'hote,  when 
the  artist  told  him  that  she  had  been  remon- 
strated with  when  making  a  sketch  on  the  sum- 
mit of  an  exceedingly  beautiful  hillside  to  the 


212  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


eastward  of  the  city.  This  admonition  was 
enough.  Much  better  to  take  good  advice  than 
to  languish  in  prison  till  your  consul  comes 
and  gets  you  out,  —  which  is  just  what  has 
happened  to  inquisitive  artists  in  France  be- 
fore now. 

Toulon  is  warlike  to  the  very  core,  and,  in 
spite  of  an  active  historic  past,  there  is  scarcely 
a  monument  in  the  town  to-day,  except  the  old 
cathedral  of  Saint  Marie  Majeure,  which  takes 
rank  among  those  which  appeal  for  architec- 
tural worth  alone.  The  arsenal  is  the  chief 
attraction;  remove  it,  and  Toulon  might  be- 
come a  great  commercial  centre,  or  even  a 
"  watering-place,"  but  with  it  the  very  atmos- 
phere smacks  of  powder  and  shot. 

The  city  is  not  unlovely  as  great  cities  go. 
It  is  modern,  well-kept,  and  certainly  well- 
beautified  by  trees  and  shrubs  and  flowers,  and 
wide,  straight  streets,  and,  above  all,  it  is 
blessed  with  a  charming  situation. 

Of  all  the  cities  of  the  Mediterranean  (al- 
ways excepting  Marseilles),  Toulon  is  the  most 
gay.  It  has  not  the  feverish  commercialism  of 
Marseilles,  but  it  has  an  up-to-dateness  that 
is  quite  as  much  to  be  remarked.  There  are  no 
boulevards  maritimes  or  great  hotels,  as  at 
Cannes  or  Nice,  neither  are  there  any  special 


<5 

o 

to 

4 


Over  Cap  Sicie 213 

tourist  attractions  to  make  Toulon  a  resort, 
but  there  are  cafes  galore  and  much  gaiety  of 
a  convivial  kind.  "  line  ville  reguliere,  d' as- 
pect Americain,"  Toulon  has  been  called,  and 
it  merits  the  appellation  in  some  respects,  with 
its  straight  streets  and  tall  houses  of  brick  or 
stone.  A  large  number  of  great  branching 
palms  just  saves  the  situation. 

The  great  defect  of  Toulon  is  that  the  quar- 
ter where  centres  the  life  of  the  city  is  far  away 
from  the  sea.  To  get  a  satisfactory  view  of  the 
magnificent  harbour,  or  the  commercial  port  of 
the  Vieille  Darse,  one  has  to  go  even  farther 
afield  and  climb  one  or  the  other  of  the  hill- 
sides round  about,  when  a  truly  great  pano- 
rama spreads  itself  out. 

La  Seyne,  the  great  ship-building  suburb  of 
Toulon,  is  a  model  of  what  a  manufacturing 
town  of  its  class  should  be,  though  it  has  no 
real  meaning  for  the  tourist  for  rest  or  pleas- 
ure. For  the  student  of  things  and  men,  the 
case  is  somewhat  different.  For  instance,  you 
may  read,  posted  up  on  the  wall  opposite  the 
entrance  to  the  ship-building  establishment, 
that  the  Gazetta  del  Popolo  of  Genoa  has  a 
correspondent  at  Toulon,  this  in  big,  staring 
red  and  green  letters  surmounting  a  more  or 
less  rude  woodcut  of  an  Italian  soldier.    From 


214  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

this  one  gathers  that  the  Italian  workmen  are 
numerous  hereabouts,  as  indeed  they  are,  and 
almost  everywhere  else  along  the  coast.  As 
like  as  not  the  hotel  gargon  serves  your  soup 
with  an  "  Ecco,"  instead  of  a  "  Voild!  "  and 
sooner  or  later  you  come  to  realize  that  the 
hybrid  speech  which  you  hear  on  street  corners 
is  not  Provengal  but  Franco-Italian. 

Toulon,  in  history,  makes  a  long  and  brilliant 
chapter,  but  a  cataloguing  even  of  the  events 
can  have  no  place  here.  Its  prominence  as  a 
stronghold  and  bulwark  of  the  French  nation 
was  due  to  Louis  XII.,  the  second  husband  of 
Anne  of  Bretagne,  who,  it  is  said,  inspired  his 
predecessor  on  the  throne  (and  in  her  affec- 
tions) to  first  appreciate  the  advantages  of 
Brest  as  a  stronghold  of  a  similar  character. 

Ages  before  this  Toulon  was  founded  by  the 
Phoenicians,  it  is  supposed  sometime  before 
the  tenth  century.  The  royal  purple  of  the 
East  and  the  desire  to  possess  it,  or  make  it, 
was  the  prime  cause;  for  the  ancients  found 
that  the  waters  around  Toulon  gave  birth  to 
a  mollusk  which  dyed  everything  with  which 
it  came  in  contact  into  a  most  brilliant  purple. 
It  seems  a  small  thing  to  found  a  great  city 
upon,  and  the  industry  is  non-existent  to-day, 
but  such  is  the  more  or  less  legendary  account. 


Over  Cap  Side  215 

After  the  Phoenicians  Toulon  fell  into  the 
background,  and  the  possibilities  of  building 
here  a  great  port  which  might  rival  Marseilles 
were  utterly  neglected. 

It  seems  probable  that  the  original  name  of 
the  town  was  Telo,  which  in  the  itinerary  of 
Antony  is  given  as  Telo-Martius,  from  an 
ancient  temple  to  Mars,  "thus  distinguishing  it 
from  a  similar  name  applied  to  many  other 
places  in  the  Narbonnais. 

Finally  Toulon  emerged  from  its  semi-ob- 
scurity, and  Guillaume  de  Tarente,  Comte  de 
Provence,  in  1055,  surrounded  with  wall  "  the 
place  called  Tholon  or  Tollon." 

Until  the  tenth  century  Toulon's  ecclesiastic 
cal  history  was  more  momentous  than  was  its 
civic.  It  had  been  the  seat  of  a  bishop  for  a 
matter  of  six  centuries,  with  St.  Honorat,  St. 
Grratien,  and  St.  Cyprien  as  bishops,  all  within 
the  first  century  of  its  existence. 

The  plan  to  make  Toulon  one  of  the  great 
fortified  places  of  the  world  was  carried  on 
assiduously  by  Richelieu,  who  commanded  a 
certain  Jacques  Desmarets,  professor  of  math- 
ematics at  the  university  at  Aix,  to  make  a 
plan  which  should  show  the  Provencal  coast- 
line in  all  its  detail.  The  instructions  read, 
"  .  .  .  sur  velin,  enlumine  en  or  et  representant 


216  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

la  cote  jusqu'd  deux  ou  trois  lieues  dans  les 
terres." 

The  general  scheme  was  carried  out  further 
by  Mazarin,  the  wily  Italian  who  succeeded 
Richelieu.  In  company  with  Louis  XIV.,  Maz- 
arin visited  Toulon,  and  then  and  there  decided 
that  it  should  take  the  first  place  in  the  king- 
dom as  a  stronghold  for  the  navy. 

Toulon  then  became  the  greatest  naval  ar- 
senal the  world  had  known.  In  1670  it  armed 
forty-two  ships  of  the  line,  among  them  many 
three-deckers,  which  all  lovers  of  the  romance 
of  the  seas  have  come  to  accept  as  the  most 
imposing  craft  then  afloat,  whatever  may  have 
been  their  additional  virtues.  Among  those 
fitted  for  sea  and  armed  at  Toulon  was  the 
Magnifique,  a  vessel  which  excited  universal 
enthusiasm  all  over  Europe,  not  only  because 
it  mounted  a  hundred  and  four  guns,  but  be- 
cause the  sculptor  Puget  had  designed  her  dec- 
orations, and  decorations  on  ships  were  much 
more  ornate  in  those  days  than  they  are  in  the 
present  vagaries  of  the  "art  nouveau." 

Puget  lived  at  Toulon  at  the  time,  and  had 
indeed  already  designed  the  caryatides  which 
stand  out  so  prominently  in  the  Toulon's  Hotel 
de  Ville.  His  house  in  the  Rue  de  la  Republique, 
known  by  every  one  as  the  "  Maison  Puget," 


Over  Cap  Side  217 

is  one  of  the  shrines  at  which  art-worshippers 
should  not  neglect  to  pay  homage.  It  has  some 
remarkably  beautiful  features,  a  fine  stairway 
in  wrought  iron,  an  elaborate  newel-post,  and 
many  similar  decorations. 

Back  of  Toulon  is  the  great  gray  mass  of 
the  Faron,  fortified,  as  is  every  height  and  point 
of  view  round  about.  From  the  summit  of  this 
great  height  (546  metres)  one  may  see,  on  a 
clear  day,  Corsica  and  the  Alps  of  Savoie.  The 
fortifications  are  top  numerous  to  call  by  name 
here,  and,  indeed,  they  are  uninteresting  enough 
to  the  lover  of  the  romantically  picturesque, 
regardless  of  their  worth  from  a  strategic  point 
of  view.  Like  the  cannon,  the  forts  are  every- 
where. 

Formerly  the  port  of  Toulon  was  closed  by 
sinking  a  great  chain  across  the  harbour-mouth. 
It  went  down  with  the  sinking  of  the  sun  and 
only  rose  at  daybreak.  The  guardianship  of 
this  defence  was  given  to  some  "  homme  de 
con  fiance  "  of  Toulon  as  a  sort  of  deserved 
honour  or  glory.  This  was  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  and  to-day,  though  the  guard-ships  and 
the  search-lights  of  the  forts  do  the  same  serv- 
ice, the  name  "  Chaine  Vieille  "  is  still  in  the 
mouths  of  the  old  sailors  and  fishermen  as  they 


218  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

make  their  way  to  and  fro  from  the  Grande  to 
the  Petite  Bade. 

Toulon  has  among  its  great  men  of  the  past 
the  name  of  the  Chevalier  Paul,  perhaps  first 
and  foremost  of  all  the  seafarers  of  France 
since  the  day  of  Dougay-Trouin.  He  had  fixed 
his  residence  in  the  valley  of  the  Dardennes, 
with  a  roof  over  his  head  "  tout  a  fait  digne 
d'un  prince."  In  the  month  of  February,  1660, 
the  celebrated  sailor  received  Louis  XIV.,  Anne 
of  Austria,  the  Due  d 'Orleans,  Cardinal  Maz- 
arin,  "  la  grande  Mademoiselle,"  innumerable 
princes  and  seigneurs,  four  Secretaires  d'fitat, 
the  ambassador  of  Venice,  and  the  papal  nun- 
cio. This  royal  company  was  splendidly  feted, 
much  after  the  manner  of  those  assemblies  held 
in  the  previous  century  in  the  chateaux  of  Tou- 
raine.  The  Chevalier  bore  until  his  death  the 
title  of  supreme  "  Commandant  de  la  Marine," 
and  when  his  death  came,  at  the  age  of  seventy, 
he  made  the  poor  of  the  city  his  heirs. 

One  memory  of  Toulon,  which  is  familiar  to 
students  of  history  and  romance,  are  the  pris- 
ons and  galleys  of  other  days.  Dumas  draws 
a  vivid  picture  of  the  life  in  the  galleys  in  one 
of  his  little  known  but  most  absorbing  tales, 
"  Gabriel  Lambert." 

To  be  sure,  those  who  were  condemned  "  a 


Over  Cap  Sicie 219 

ramer  sur  les  galeres  "  were  mostly  culprits 
who  deserved  some  sort  of  punishment,  but 
the  survival  of  the  institution  was  one  that  one 
marvels  at  in  these  advanced  centuries. 

Keally  the  galley,  and  the  uses  to  which  it 
was  put  at  Toulon  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
was  a  survival  of  the  galley  of  the  ancients. 
It  was  a  long  slim  craft,  of  light  draught,  pro- 
pelled by  a  single,  double,  or  treble  bank  of 
oars,  and  sometimes  sails. 

The  punishment  of  the  galleys,  that  is  to  say, 
the  obligation  to  "  ramer  sur  les  galeres,"  was 
applied  to  certain  classes  of  criminals  who  were 
known  as  forgats  or  galeriens.  The  crime  of 
Gabriel  Lambert,  of  whom  Dumas  wrote  with 
such  fidelity,  was  that  of  counterfeiting. 

In  1749  there  were  sixteen  galeres  here,  eight 
of  them  at  "  practice  "  at  one  time,  giving  oc- 
cupation to  thirty-seven  hundred  convicts  who 
were  quartered  on  old  hulks  moored  to  the 
quays  or  on  shore  in  a  convict  prison. 

Between  Toulon  and  Hyeres,  lying  back  from 
the  coast,  in  the  valley  of  the  Gapeau,  is  a  bit 
of  transplanted  Africa,  where  the  brilliant  sun 
shines  with  all  the  vigour  that  it  does  on  the 
opposite  Mediterranean  shore.  The  valley  is 
perhaps  the  most  important  topographically 
west  of  the  Ehone,  at  least  until  one  reaches 


220 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


Over  Cap  Sicie 221 

the  Var  at  Nice.  There  is  a  sprinkling  of  small 
towns  here  and  there,  and  more  frequent  coun- 
try residences  and  vineyards,  but  there  is  an 
air  of  solitude  about  it  that  can  but  be  remarked 
by  all  who  travel  by  road. 

One  great  highroad  runs  out  from  Toulon 
through  Sollies-Pont,  Cuers,  Puget-Ville,  Pi- 
gnans,  and  Le  Luc  to  Frejus.  The  coast  road 
leads  to  the  same  objective  point,  but  the  char- 
acteristics of  the  two  are  as  different  as  can 
be.  A  more  varied  and  more  charming  combi- 
nation of  scenic  charms,  than  can  be  had  by 
journeying  out  via  one  route  and  back  by  the 
other,  can  hardly  be  found  in  this  world,  unless 
one  has  in  mind  some  imaginary  blend  of 
Switzerland  and  the  Mediterranean. 

The  region  is  known  as  Les  Maures,  the 
name  in  reality  referring  to  the  mountain  chain 
whose  peaks  follow  the  coast-line  at  a  distance 
of  from  thirty  to  fifty  kilometres. 

The  whole  region  known  as  Les  Maures  is 
in  a  state  of  semi-solitude;  twenty-three  thou- 
sands souls  for  an  area  of  one  hundred  and 
twenty  thousand  hectares  is  a  remarkable  spar- 
sity  of  population  for  most  parts  of  France. 

Cuers  is  the  metropolis  of  the  region  and 
boasts  of  some  three  thousand  inhabitants,  and 
a  great  trade  in  the  oil  of  the  olive. 


222  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


There  is  absolutely  nothing  of  interest  to  the 
tourist  in  any  of  these  little  towns  between 
Toulon  and  Frejus.  There  is  to  be  sure  the 
usual  picturesque  church,  which,  if  not  grand 
or  architecturally  excellent,  is  invariably  what 
artists  call  "  interesting,"  and  there  is  always 
a  picturesque  grouping  of  roof-tops,  clustered 
around  the  church  in  a  manner  unknown  out- 
side of  France. 

Occasionally  one  does  see  a  small  town  in 
France  which  reminds  him  of  Italy,  and  occa- 
sionally one  that  suggests  Holland,  but  mostly 
they  are  French  and  nothing  but  French, 
though  they  be  as  varied  in  colour  as  Joseph's 
coat,  and  as  diversified  in  manners  and  customs 
as  one  would  imagine  of  a  country  whose  cli- 
mate runs  the  whole  gamut  from  northern 
snows  to  southern  olive  groves. 

In  reality,  Cuers  shares  its  importance  with 
Les  Sollies,  whose  curious  name  grew  up  from 
the  memory  of  a  Temple  of  the  Sun,  upon  the 
remains  of  which  is  built  the  present  church 
of  Sollies-Ville. 

Sollies-Pont  owes  its  name  to  the  pont,  or 
bridge,  by  which  the  "  Route  Nationale  " 
crosses  the  Oapeau.  It  is  the  centre  of  the 
cherry  culture  in  the  Var,  and  at  the  time  of 
year  when  the  trees  are  in  blossom,  the  aspect 


In  Les  Man  res 


Over  Cap  Sicie 223 

of  the  surrounding  hillsides  would  put  cherry- 
blossoming  Japan  to  shame.  The  crop  is  the 
first  which  comes  into  the  market  in  France. 
The  lovers  of  early  fruits,  in  Paris  restaurants 
and  hotels,  know  the  "  cerises  du  Var  "  very 
well  indeed.  They  buy  them  at  the  highest 
market  prices,  delightfully  put  up  in  boxes  of 
poplar-wood  and  garnished  with  lace-paper. 
Annually  Sollies-Pont  despatches  something 
like  a  hundred  thousand  cases  of  these  first 
cherries  of  the  year,  each  weighing  from  three 
to  twelve  kilos,  and  bringing  —  well,  anything 
they  can  command,  the  very  first  perhaps  as 
much  as  eight  or  ten  francs  a  kilo.  This  for 
the  first  few  straggling  boxes  which  some  for- 
tunate grower  has  been  able  to  pick  off  a  well- 
sunned  tree.  "Within  a  fortnight  the  price  will 
have  fallen  to  fifty  centimes,  and  at  the  end 
of  a  month  the  traffic  is  all  over,  so  far  as  the 
export  to  outside  markets  is  concerned. 

"  Cherries  are  grown  everywhere,"  one  says. 
Yes,  but  not  such  cherries  as  at  Sollies-Pont. 

Here  at  this  little  railway  station  in  the  Var 
one  may  see  a  whole  train  loaded  with  a  hun- 
dred thousand  kilos  of  the  most  luscious  cher- 
ries one  ever  cast  eyes  upon. 

The  aspect  of  the  region  round  about  has 
nothing  of  the  grayness  of  the  olive  orchards 


224  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

east  and  west ;  all  this  has  given  way  to  a  flow- 
ering radiance  and  a  brilliant  green,  as  of  an 
oasis  in  a  desert. 

The  gathering  of  this  important  crop  is  con- 
ducted with  more  care  than  that  of  any  other 
of  the  Riviera.  The  trees  are  not  shaken  and 
their  fruit  picked  up  off  the  ground,  nor  do 
agile  lads  climb  in  and  out  among  the  branches. 
Not  even  a  ladder  is  thrust  between  the  thick 
leaves  of  the  trees,  but  a  great  straddling  step- 
ladder,  like  those  used  by  the  olive  pickers  of 
the  Bouches-du-Rhone,  is  carried  about  from 
tree  to  tree,  and  gives  a  foothold  to  two,  three, 
or  even  four  lithe,  young  girls,  whose  graces 
are  none  the  less  for  their  gymnastics  at  reach- 
ing for  the  fruit  head-high  and  at  arm's  length. 

One  marvels  perhaps  —  when  he  sees  these 
boxes  of  luscious  cherries  in  the  Paris  market 
—  as  to  how  they  may  have  been  packed  with 
such  symmetry.  It  is  very  simple,  though  the 
writer  had  to  see  it  done  at  Sollies-Pont  be- 
fore he  realized  it.  The  boxes  are  simply 
packed  from  the  top  downwards,  so  to  speak. 
The  first  layer  is  packed  in  close  rows,  the 
stems  all  pointing  upwards,  then  the  rest  of 
the  contents  are  put  in  without  plan  or  design, 
and  the  cover  fastened  down.  When  the  pack- 
ages are  opened,  it  is  the  bottom  that  is  lifted, 


Over  Cap  Sicie 225 

and  thus  one  sees  first  the  rosy-red  globules, 
all  in  rows,  like  the  little  wooden  balls  of  the 
counting  machines. 

The  south  of  France  is  destined  to  provision 
a  great  part  of  Europe,  and  already  it  is  play- 
ing its  part  well.  The  cherries  of  Sollies-Pont 
go  —  after  Paris  has  had  its  fill  —  to  England, 
Switzerland,  Belgium,  Germany,  and  Russia, 
though  doubtless  only  the  ' '  milords  ' '  and  mil- 
lionaires get  a  chance  at  them. 

Besides  the  consumption  of  the  fruit  au  na- 
turel,  the  cherries  of  the  Var  are  the  most  pre- 
ferred of  all  those  delicacies  which  are  pre- 
served in  brandy,  and  a  cocktail,  of  any  of  the 
many  varieties  that  are  made  in  America  (and 
one  place,  and  one  only,  in  Paris  —  which  shall 
be  nameless),  with  one  of  the  cherries  of  Sol- 
lies-Pont drowned  therein,  is  a  superdelicious 
thing,  unexcelled  in  all  the  "  made  drinks  " 
the  world  knows  to-day. 


CHAPTER   in. 

THE   REAL   RIVIEEA 

The  real  French  Riviera  is  not  the  resorts 
of  rank  and  fashion  alone;  it  is  the  whole 
ensemble  of  that  marvellous  bit  of  coast-line 
extending  eastward  from  Toulon  to  the  Italian 
frontier.  Topographically,  geographically,  and 
climatically  it  abounds  in  salient  features  which, 
in  combination,  are  unknown  in  any  similar 
strip  of  territory  in  all  the  world,  though  there 
is  very  little  that  is  strange,  outre,  or  exotic 
about  any  of  its  aspects.  It  is  simply  a  com- 
bination of  conditions  which  are  indigenous  to 
the  sunny,  sheltered  shores  of  the  northern 
Mediterranean,  which  are  here  blessed,  owing 
to  a  variety  of  reasons,  with  a  singularly  equa- 
ble climate  and  situation. 

Doubtless  the  region  is  not  the  peer  of  south- 
ern California  in  topography  or  climate;  in- 
deed, without  fear  or  favour,  the  statement  is 
here  made  that  it  is  not ;  but  it  has  what  Cali- 
fornia never  has  had,  nor  ever  will,  a  history- 
strewn  pathway  traversing  its  entire  length, 

226 


The  Real  Riviera 227 

where  the  monuments  left  by  the  ancient  Greeks 
and  Romans  tell  a  vivid  story  of  the  past  great- 
ness of  the  progenitors  and  moulders  of  mod- 
ern civilization. 

This  in  itself  should  be  enough  to  make  the 
Riviera  revered,  as  it  justly  is;  but  it  is  not 
this,  but  the  gay  life  of  those  who  neither  toil 
nor  spin  that  makes  this  world's  beauty-spot 
(for  Monaco  and  Monte  Carlo  are  assuredly 
the  most  beautiful  spots  in  the  world)  so  wor- 
shipped by  those  who  have  sojourned  here. 

This  is  wrong  of  course,  but  the  simple  life 
has  not  yet  come  to  be  the  institution  that  its 
prophets  would  have  us  believe,  and,  after  all, 
a  passion  of  some  sort  is  the  birthright  of  every 
man,  whether  it  be  gambling  at  Monte  Carlo, 
automobiling  on  sea  or  land,  painting,  or  at- 
tempting to  paint,  the  masterpieces  of  nature, 
or  studying  historic  monuments.  At  any  rate, 
all  these  diversions  are  here,  and  more,  and, 
as  one  may  pursue  any  of  them  under  more 
idyllic  conditions  here  than  elsewhere,  the 
Riviera  is  become  justly  famed  —  and  notori- 
ous. 

Not  all  Riviera  visitors  live  in  palatial  hotels ; 
some  of  them  live  en  pension,  which,  like  the 
boarding-house  of  other  lands,  has  its  unde- 
niable advantage  of  economy,  and  its  equally 


228  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

undeniable  disadvantages  too  numerous  to  men- 
tion and  needless  to  recall. 

Of  course  the  Riviera  has  undeniable  social 
attractions,  since  it  was  developed  (so  far  as 
the  English  —  and  Americans  —  are  concerned) 
by  that  vain  man,  Lord  Brougham. 

Lord  Brougham,  Lord  Chancellor  of  Eng- 
land, first  gave  the  popular  fillip  to  Cannes  in 
the  early  years  of  Queen  Victoria's  reign. 
From  that  time  the  Riviera,  east  and  west  of 
Cannes,  has  steadily  increased  in  popularity 
and  in  transplanted  institutions.  The  chief  of 
these  is  perhaps  the  tea-tippling  craze  which 
has  struck  the  Riviera  with  full  force.  It's  not 
as  exhilarating  an  amusement  as  automobiling, 
which  runs  it  a  close  second  here,  but  a  "  tea- 
fight  "  at  a  Riviera  hotel  de  luxe  has  at  least 
something  more  than  the  excitement  of  a  game 
of  golf  or  croquet,  which  also  flourish  on  the 
sand-dunes  under  the  pines,  from  St.  Tropez 
to  Menton,  and  even  over  into  Italy. 

It's  a  pity  the  tea-drinking  craze  is  so  monop- 
olizing, —  really  it  is  as  bad  as  the  "  Pernod  " 
habit,  and  is  no  more  confined  to  old  maids 
than  are  Bath  chairs  or  the  reading  of  the 
Morning  Post.  Bishop  Berkeley  certainly  was 
in  error  when  he  wrote,  or  spoke,  about  the 
"  cup  that  cheers  but  does  not  inebriate,"  for 


The  Real  Riviera  229 

the  saying  has  come  to  be  one  of  the  false 
truths  which  is  so  much  of  a  platitude  that 
few  have  ever  thought  of  denying  it. 

The  doctors  say  that  one  should  not  take 
tea  or  alcohol  on  the  Riviera,  the  ozone  of  the 
climate  supplying  all  the  stimulant  necessary. 
If  one  wants  anything  more  exciting,  let  him 
try  the  tables  at  Monte  Carlo. 

Riviera  weather  is  a  variable  commodity. 
Some  localities  are  more  subject  to  the  mistral 
than  others,  though  none  admit  that  they  have 
it  to  the  least  degree,  and  some  places  are  more 
relaxing  than  others.  Menton  is  warm,  and 
very  little  rain  falls;  Nice  is  blazing  hot  and 
cold  by  turn ;  and  there  are  seasons  at  Cannes, 
in  winter,  when,  but  for  the  date  in  the  daily 
paper,  you  would  think  it  was  May. 

Beaulieu  and  Cap  Martin  lead  off  for  uni- 
formity of  the  day  and  night  temperature. 
The  reading  at  the  former  place  (in  that  part 
known  as  "  Petite  Afrique  ")  on  a  January 
day  in  1906  being:  minimum  during  the 
night,  9°  centigrade ;  maximum  during  the  day, 
11°  centigrade ;  8  a.  m.,  10°  centigrade ;  2  p.  m., 
9°  centigrade,  and,  in  a  particularly  well-shel- 
tered spot  in  the  gardens  of  the  Hotel  Met- 
ropole,  15°  centigrade.     This  is  a  remarkable 


230 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


and  convincing  demonstration  of  the  claims  for 
an  equable  temperature  which  are  set  forth. 

In  general  this  is  not  true  of  the  Riviera. 
A  bright,  sunny,  and  cloudless  January  day, 
when  one  is  uncomfortably  warm  at  midday, 
is,  as  likely  as  not,  followed  at  night  by  a  sud- 
den fall  in  temperature  that  makes  one  frigid, 
if  only  by  contrast. 


■  III  1  IIUll  ■  ■  1  t  1  ■  I  ■      .  I....-...I...  ■  W||[ 

Comparative  Theometric  Scale 

The  Riviera  house-agent  tells  you :  "  Do  not 
come  here  unless  you  are  prepared  to  stay  " 
(he  might  have  added  "  and  pay  "),  "  for  the 
Riviera  renders  all  other  lands  uninhabitable 
after  once  you  have  fallen  under  its  charm." 

Amid  all  the  gorgeousness  of  perhaps  the 
most  exquisite  beauty-spot  in  all  the  world  — 
that  same  little  strip  of  coast  between  Hyeres 


The  Real  Riviera  231 

and  Menton  —  is  a  colony  of  parasitic  dwellers 
who  are  no  part  of  the  attractions  of  the  place ; 
but  who  unconsciously  act  as  a  loadstone  which 
draws  countless  others  of  their  countrymen, 
with  their  never  absent  diversions  of  golf,  ten- 
nis, and  croquet.  One  pursues  these  harmless 
sports  amid  a  delightful  setting,  but  why  come 
here  for  that  purpose?  One  cannot  walk  the 
Boulevards  and  Grandes  Promenades  all  of  the 
time,  to  be  sure,  but  he  might  take  that  rest 
which  he  professedly  comes  for,  or  failing  that, 
take  a  plunge  into  the  giddy  whirl  of  the  life 
of  the  "  Casino  "  or  the  "  Cercle."  The  result 
will  be  the  same,  and  he  will  be  just  as  tired 
when  night  comes  and  he  has  overfed  himself 
with  a  diner  Parisien  at  a  great  palace  hotel 
where  the  only  persons  who  do  not  "  dress  " 
are  the  waiters. 

This  is  certain,  —  the  traveller  and  seeker 
after  change  and  rest  will  not  find  it  here  any 
more  than  in  Piccadilly  or  on  Broadway,  un- 
less he  leaves  the  element  of  big  hotels  far 
in  the  background,  and  lives  simply  in  some 
little  hovering  suburb  such  as  Cagnes  is  to  Nice 
or  Le  Cannet  to  Cannes,  or  preferably  goes 
farther  afield.  Only  thus  may  one  live  the  life 
of  the  author  of  the  following  lines: 


232  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

"  There  found  he  all  for  which  he  long  did  crave, 
Beauty  and  solitude  and  simple  ways, 
Plain  folk  and  primitive,  made  courteous  by 
Traditions  old,  and  a  cerulean  sky." 

The  rest  is  hubble,  bubble,  toil,  and  trouble 
of  the  same  kind  that  one  has  in  the  hotels  of 
San  Francisco,  London,  or  Amsterdam ;  every- 
thing cooked  in  the  same  pot  and  tasting  of 
cottolene  and  beef  extract. 

There  is  some  truth  in  this,  —  for  some  peo- 
ple, —  but  the  ties  that  bind  are  not  taken  into 
consideration,  and,  though  the  words  are  an 
echo  of  those  uttered  by  Alphonse  Karr  when 
he  first  settled  at  St.  Raphael,  —  after  having 
been  driven  from  Etretat  by  the  vulgar  throng, 
—  they  will  not  fit  every  one 's  ideas  or  pocket- 
books. 

Popularity  has  made  a  boulevard  of  the 
whole  coast  from  St.  Raphael  to  San  Remo, 
and  indeed  to  Genoa,  and  there  is  no  seclusion 
to  be  had,  nor  freedom  from  the  "  sirens  "  of 
automobiles,  or  the  tin  horns  of  trams  and 
whistles  of  locomotives;  unless  one  leaves  the 
beaten  track  and  settles  in  some  background 
village,  such  as  Les  Maures  or  the  Esterel, 
where  the  hum  of  life  is  but  the  drone  of  yes- 
terday and  Paris  papers  are  three  days  old 
when  they  reach  you. 


The  Real  Riviera 233 

For  all  that  the  whole  Eiviera,  and  its  gay 
life  as  well,  is  delightful,  though  it  is  as  ener- 
vating and  fatiguing  as  the  week's  shopping 
and  theatre-going  in  Paris  with  which  Ameri- 
can travellers  usually  wind  up  their  tour  of 
Europe. 

The  Riviera  isn't  exactly  as  a  Frenchman 
wrote  of  it :  "  all  Americans,  English,  and  Ger- 
mans," and  it  is  hardly  likely  you  will  find  a 
hotel  where  none  of  the  attendants  speak 
French  (as  this  same  Frenchman  declared), 
but  nevertheless  "  All  right  "  is  as  often  the 
reply  as  "  Oui,  monsieur." 

All  the  multifarious  attractions  of  this  strip 
of  coast-line  are  doubly  enhanced  by  the  deli- 
cious climate,  and  the  wonders  of  the  Baie  des 
Anges  and  the  Golfe  de  la  Napoule  are  more 
and  more  charming  as  the  sun  rises  higher  in 
the  heavens,  and  La  Napoule,  St.  Jean,  Beau- 
lieu,  Passable,  Villefranche,  Cap  Martin,  and 
Cap  Ferrat,  the  "  Corniche,"  La  Turbie,  Mo- 
naco, and  Menton  are  all  names  to  conjure  with 
when  one  wants  to  call  to  mind  what  a  modern 
Eden  might  be  like. 

Of  course  Monte  Carlo  dominates  everything. 
It  is  the  one  objective  point,  more  or  less  fre- 
quently, of  all  Riviera  dwellers.  The  sump- 
tuousness  of  it  acts  like  a  loadstone  toward 


234  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

steel,  or  the  candle-flame  to  the  moth,  and  many 
are  the  wings  that  are  singed  and  clipped 
within  its  boundaries. 

Whatever  may  be  the  moral  or  immoral  as- 
pect of  Monte  Carlo,  it  does  not  matter  in  the 
least.  It  has  its  opponents  and  its  partisans, 
—  and  the  bank  goes  on  winning  for  ever. 
Meantime  the  whole  region  is  prosperous,  and 
the  public  certainly  gets  what  it  comes  for.  The 
Monegasques  themselves  profit  the  most  how- 
ever. They  are,  for  instance,  exempt  from 
taxes  of  any  sort,  which  is  considerable  of  a 
boon  in  heavily  taxed  continental  Europe. 

Monte  Carlo  is  an  enigma.  Its  palatial 
hotels,  its  Casino,  its  game,  and  its  concerts 
and  theatre,  its  pigeon-shooting,  its  automobile 
yachting,  and  all  the  rest  contribute  to  a  round 
of  gaiety  not  elsewhere  known.  It  may  rain 
"  hallebardes,"  as  the  French  have  it,  but  the 
most  adverse  weather  report  which  ever  gets 
into  the  papers  from  Monte  Carlo  is  "  del 
nuageux." 

If  Marseilles  is  the  "  Modern  Babylon  "  of 
the  workaday  world,  the  Riviera  —  in  the  sea- 
son—  may  well  be  called  the  "  Cosmopolis  de 
luxe."  In  winter  all  nations  under  the  sun 
are  there,  but  in  summer  it  is  quite  another 
story;   still,  Monte  Carlo's  tables  run  the  year 


a 


/    i 


u 


JV\ 


H, 


-•v 


'SO 


The  Real  Riviera  235 

around,  and,  as  the  inhabitant  of  the  princi- 
pality is  not  allowed  to  enter  its  profane  por- 
tals, it  is  certain  that  visitors  are  not  entirely 
absent. 

There  are  three  distinct  Eivieras:  the 
French  Eiviera  proper,  from  Toulon  to  Men- 
ton;  the  Italian  Eiviera,  from  Bordighera  to 
Alassio;  and  the  Levantine  Eiviera,  from 
Genoa  to  Viareggio. 

Partisans  plead  loudly  for  Cairo,  Biskra, 
Capri,  Palermo,  and  Majorca,  —  and  some  for 
Madeira  or  Grand  Canary,  —  but  the  compara- 
tively restricted  bit  of  Mediterranean  coast- 
line known  as  the  three  Eivieras  will  undoubt- 
edly hold  its  own  with  the  mass  of  winter  birds 
of  passage.  Just  why  this  is  so  is  obvious  for 
three  reasons.  The  first  because  it  is  accessi- 
ble, the  second,  because  it  is  moderately  cheap 
to  get  to,  and  to  live  in  after  one  gets  there, 
unless  one  really  does  "  plunge,"  which  most 
Anglo-Saxons  do  not ;  and  the  third,  —  whisper 
it  gently,  —  because  the  English  or  American 
tourist,  be  he  semi-invalid  or  be  he  not,  hopes 
to  find  his  fellows  there,  and  as  many  as  possi- 
ble of  his  pet  institutions,  such  as  afternoon 
tea  and  cocktails,  marmalade  and  broiled  live 
lobsters,  to  say  nothing  of  his  own  language, 


236  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

spoken  in  the  lisping  accents  of  a  Swiss  or 
German  waiter. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  struggle  with  French 
on  the  Riviera,  and  the  estimable  lady  of  the 
following  anecdote  might  have  called  for  help 
in  English  and  got  it  just  as  quickly: 

At  the  door  of  a  Riviera  express,  stopping 
at  the  Gare  de  Cannes,  an  elderly  English  lady 
tripped  over  the  rug  and  was  prostrated  her 
full-length  on  the  platform. 

Gallant  Frenchmen  rushed  to  her  aid  from 
all  quarters:  "  Vous  n'avez  pas  de  mal,  ma- 
dame?  "  "  Merci,  non,  seulement  une  petite 
sac  de  voyage,"  she  replied,  as  she  limpingly 
and  lispingly  made  her  way  through  the  crowd. 

This  ought  to  dispose  of  the  language  ques- 
tion once  for  all.  If  you  are  on  the  Riviera, 
speak  English,  or,  likely  enough,  you  will  fall 
into  similar  errors  unless  you  know  that  vague 
thing,  idiomatic  French,  which  is  only  acquired 
by  familiarity. 

The  French  Riviera  has  from  forty  to  fifty 
rainy  days  a  year,  which  is  certainly  not  much ; 
and  it  is  conceivable  that  a  stay  of  two  months 
at  Nice,  Cannes,  or  Menton  will  not  bring  a 
rainy  day  to  mar  the  memory  of  this  sunny 
land.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Levantine  Rivi- 
era may  have  ten  days  of  rain  in  a  month,  and 


The  Real  Riviera  237 

the  next  month  another  ten  days  may  follow  — 
or  it  may  not.  It  is  well,  however,  not  to  over- 
look the  fact  that  Pisa,  not  so  very  far  inland 
from  the  easternmost  end  of  the  Italian  Rivi- 
era, is  called  the  ' '  Pozzo  dell  Italia  ' '  —  the 
well  of  Italy. 

There  was  a  time  when  Cannes,  Nice,  and 
Menton  were  favoured  as  invalid  resorts,  and 
as  mere  pleasant  places  to  while  away  a  dull 
period  of  repose,  but  to-day  all  this  is  changed, 
and  even  the  semi-invalid  is  looked  at  askance 
by  the  managers  of  hotels  and  the  purveyors  of 
amusements. 

The  social  attractions  have  quite  swamped 
the  health-giving  inducements  of  the  chief 
towns  of  the  Riviera,  and  the  automobile  has 
taken  the  place  of  the  Bath  chair ;  indeed,  it  is 
the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil  which  have 
come  into  the  province  where  ministering  an- 
gels formerly  held  sway. 

At  the  head  of  all  the  throng  of  Riviera 
pleasure-seekers  are  the  royalties  and  the  no- 
bility of  many  lands.  "  Au-dessous  d'eux,"  as 
one  reads  in  the  monologue  of  Charles  Quint, 
"  la  foule,"  but  here  the  throng  is  still  those 
who  have  the  distinction  of  wealth,  whatever 
may  be  their  other  virtues.  A  "  petit  million- 
aire Frangais,"  by  which  the  Frenchman  means 


238  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

one  who  has  perhaps  thirty  thousand  francs 
a  year,  stands  no  show  here;  his  place  is  taken 
by  the  sugar  and  copper  kings  and  ' '  milords  ' ' 
and  millionaires  from  overseas. 

There  are  others,  of  course,  who  come  and 
go,  and  who  have  not  got  a  million  sous,  or  ever 
will  have,  but  the  best  they  can  do  is  to  hire 
a  garden  seat  on  the  promenade  and  with  Don 
Cesar  de  Bazan  "  regarder  entrer  et  sor- 
tir  les  duchesses."  It  is  either  this  (in  most 
of  the  resorts  of  fashion  along  the  Eiviera) 
or  one  must  "  manger  les  haricots  "  for  eleven 
months  in  order  to  be  able  to  ape  "  le  monde  " 
for  the  other  twelfth  part  of  the  year.  Most 
of  us  would  not  do  the  thing,  of  course,  so  we 
are  content  to  slip  in  and  out,  and  admire,  and 
marvel,  and  deplore,  and  put  in  our  time  in 
some  spot  nearer  to  nature,  where  dress  clothes 
cease  from  troubling  and  functions  are  no 
more. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

HYEKES   AND   ITS   NEIGHBOUKHOOD 

Just  off  the  coast  road  from  Toulon  to  Hy- 
eres  is  the  tiny  town  of  La  Garde.  The  com- 
mune boasts  of  twenty-five  hundred  inhabit- 
ants, most  of  whom  evidently  live  in  hillside 
dwellings,  for  the  town  proper  has  but  a  few 
hundreds,  a  very  few,  judging  from  its  som- 
nolence and  lack  of  life.  More  country  than 
town,  the  district  abounds  in  lovely  sweeps  of 
landscape.  Pradet,  another  little  village,  lies 
toward  the  coast,  and,  amid  the  dull  grays  of 
the  olive-trees,  gleams  the  white  tower  of  a 
chapel  which  belongs  to  the  modern  chateau. 
The  chapel,  which  bears  the  sentimental  no- 
menclature of  "  La  Pauline,"  is  filled  by  a 
wonderful  lot  of  sculptures  from  the  chisel  of 
Pradier.  Decidedly  it  is  a  thing  to  be  seen 
and  appreciated  by  lovers  of  sculptured  art, 
even  though  its  modern  chateau  is  painful  in 
its  bald,  pagan  architectural  forms. 

Beyond  La  Garde  lies  the  plain  of  Hyeres, 
and  offshore  the  great  Golfe  de  Giens,  well 

239 


240  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

sheltered  and  surrounded  by  the  peninsula  of 
the  same  name,  one  of  the  beauty-spots  of  the 
Mediterranean  scarcely  known  and  still  less 
visited  by  tourists.  Directly  off  the  tip  end 
of  the  peninsula  of  Giens  is  a  little  group 
of  rocky  isles  known  as  the  lies  d'Hyeres. 
They  are  indescribably  lovely,  but  the  seafarers 
of  these  parts  of  the  Mediterranean  dread  them 
in  a  storm  as  do  Channel  sailors  the  Casquets 
in  a  fog. 

The  chief  of  these  isles  is  Porquerolles,  and 
it  possesses  a  village  of  the  same  name,  which 
has  never  yet  been  marked  down  as  a  place  of 
resort.  To  be  sure,  no  one,  unless  he  were  an 
artist  attached  to  the  painting  of  marines,  or 
an  author  who  thought  to  get  far  from  the 
madding  throng,  would  ever  come  here,  any- 
way. The  village  is  not  so  bad,  though,  and  it 
is  as  if  one  had  entered  a  new  world.  There 
is  an  inn  where  one  is  sure  of  getting  a  pas- 
sable breakfast  of  fish  and  eggs;  a  "  Grande 
Place  "  which,  paradoxically,  is  not  grand  at 
all;  and  a  humble  little  church  which  is  not 
bad  in  its  way.  Two  or  three  cafes,  a  bake- 
shop,  and  a  Bureau  des  Douanes,  of  course, 
complete  the  business  part  of  the  place.  Each 
little  maisonette  has  a  terrace  overshadowed 
with  vines,  and,  all  in  all,  it  is  truly  an  idyllic 


Hyeres  and  Its  Neighbourhood     241 

little  settlement.  The  isle  culminates  in  a  peak 
five  hundred  feet  or  so  high,  on  the  top  of 
which  is  seated  a  fortification  called  Fort  de 
la  Repentance. 

The  entire  isle,  with  the  exception  of  that 
portion  occupied  by  the  fort  and  its  batteries, 
belongs  to  a  M.  and  Madame  de  Roussen,  who 
are  known  to  readers  of  French  novels  under 
the  names  of  Pierre  Ninous  and  Paul  d'Aigre- 
mout.  The  proprietors  have  charmingly  en- 
sconced themselves  in  a  delightful  residence, 
which,  if  it  does  not  rise  to  the  dignity  of  a 
chateau,  has  as  magnificent  a  stage  setting  as 
the  most  theatrical  of  the  chateaux  of  the  Loire ; 
only,  in  this  case,  it  is  a  seascape  which  con- 
fronts one,  instead  of  the  sweep  of  the  broad 
blue  river  of  Touraine. 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  inhabitants  live  here, 
but  away  in  the  west  there  was  formerly  a 
colony  of  a  thousand  or  more  workmen  engaged 
in  the  manufacture  of  soda.  For  more  reasons 
than  one  —  the  principal  being  that  the  sul- 
phurous fumes  from  the  works  were  having 
an  ill  effect  on  the  verdure  —  the  establishment 
was  purchased  by  the  present  proprietors  of 
the  isle. 

The  village  has  somewhat  of  the  airs  of  its 
bigger  brothers  and  sisters  elsewhere  in  that 


242  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

its  streets  are  lighted  at  night;  the  wharves 
are  as  animated  as  those  of  a  great  world-town, 
particularly  on  the  arrival  of  the  boat  from 
Toulon;  and  the  market-women  sit  about  the 
street  corners  with  their  wares  picturesquely 
displayed  before  them  as  they  do  in  larger 
communities. 

Truly,  Porquerolles  is  unspoiled  as  yet,  and 
the  marvel  is  that  it  has  not  become  an  "  art- 
ist's sketching-ground  "  before  now.  It  has 
many  claims  in  this  respect  besides  its  natural 
beauties  and  attractions,  one,  not  unappre- 
ciated by  artists,  being  that  it  is  not  likely  to 
be  overrun  by  tourists.  The  reason  for  this  is 
that  the  Courrier  des  lies  d'Hyeres,  as  the 
diminutive  steamer  which  arrives  three  times 
a  week  is  called,  is  subsidized  by  the  ministry 
for  war,  and  the  captain  has  the  right  to  refuse 
passage  to  civilians  when  his  craft  is  over- 
loaded with  travelling  soldiers  and  sailors, 
whom  the  French  government,  presumably 
from  motives  of  economy,  prefers  to  move  in 
this  way  from  point  to  point  among  the  vari- 
ous forts  along  the  coast. 

Four  or  five  other  islets  make  up  the  group 
which  geographers  and  map-makers  know  as 
the  lies  d'Hyeres,  but  which  the  sentimental 
Proven^aux  best  like  to  think  of  as  the  lies 


8 


to 
8 

8 

^> 
-8 


Hyeres  and  Its  Neighbourhood     243 

d'Or;  but  their  characteristics  are  quite  the 
same  as  Porquerolles.  There  is  here  a  pic- 
turesque fort  called  Alicastre,  derived  from 
Castrum  Ali,  a  souvenir,  it  is  said,  of  a  Saracen 
chief  who  once  entrenched  himself  here.  Local 
report  has  it  that  the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask 
was  imprisoned  here  at  one  time,  but  the  near- 
est that  history  comes  to  this  is  to  place  his 
imprisonment  at  Ste.  Marguerite  and  the  Cha- 
teau d'If. 

From  the  sea,  as  one  comes  by  boat  from 
Toulon,  the  Presqu'ile  de  Giens  looks  as 
though  it  were  an  island  and  had  no  connection 
with  the  land,  for  the  neck  connecting  it  with 
the  mainland  is  invisible,  both  from  the  east- 
ward and  the  westward,  while  the  rocks  of  the 
tip  end  of  the  peninsula  are  abruptly  imposing 
as  they  rise  from  the  sea-level  to  a  moderate 
but  jagged  height. 

As  one  approaches  closer  he  notes  the  capri- 
cious scallops  of  the  shore-line  of  this  bizarre 
but  beautiful  jutting  point,  and  congratulates 
himself  that  he  did  not  make  his  way  overland. 

A  little  village  is  in  the  extreme  south,  its 
whitewashed  houses  shepherded  by  a  little 
church  and  the  ruins  of  an  old  fortress-cha- 
teau. The  town  is  as  nothing,  but  the  view 
is  most  soothing  and  tranquil  in  its  impressive 


244  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

beauty  and  quiet  charm.  Nothing  is  violent 
or  exaggerated,  but  the  components  of  many 
ideal  pictures  are  to  be  had  for  the  turning 
of  the  head.  Giens  is  another  ' '  artist 's  sketch- 
ing-ground ' '  which  has  been  wof ully  neglected. 

The  eastern  shore  is  less  savage  and  there 
are  some  attempts  at  agriculture,  but  on  the 
whole  Giens  and  its  peninsula  are  but  a  dis- 
tant echo  of  anything  seen  elsewhere.  The 
quadrilateral  walls  of  the  old  chateau,  a  sema- 
phore, and  a  coast-guard  station  form,  col- 
lectively, a  beacon  by  sea  and  by  land,  and, 
as  one  makes  his  way  to  the  mainland  along 
the  narrow  causeway,  he  is  reminded  of  that 
sandy  ligature  which  binds  Mont  St.  Michel 
with  Pontorson,  on  the  boundary  of  Brittany 
and  Normandy. 

Hyeres  is  no  longer  fashionable.  One  would 
not  think  this  to  read  the  alluring  advertise- 
ments of  its  palatial  hotels,  which,  if  not  so 
grand  and  palatial  as  those  at  Monte  Carlo, 
are,  at  least,  far  more  splendid  than  those 
"  board-walk  "  abominations  of  the  United 
States,  or  the  deadly  brick  Georgian  facades 
which  adorn  many  of  the  sea-fronts  of  the 
south  coast  of  England.  The  fact  is,  that  soci- 
ety, or  what  passes  for  it,  flutters  around  the 
gaming-tables  of  Monte  Carlo,  though  for  mo- 


Hyeres  and  Its  Neighbourhood     245 

tives  of  economy  or  respectability  they  may 
sojourn  at  Nice,  Menton,  or  Cap  Martin. 

For  this  reason  Hyeres  is  all  the  more  de- 
lightful. It  is  the  most  southerly  of  all  the 
Riviera  resorts,  and,  while  it  is  still  a  place 
of  villas  and  hotels,  there  is  a  restfulness  about 
it  all  that  many  a  resort  with  more  lurid  at- 
tractions entirely  lacks. 

Built  cosily  on  the  southern  slope  of  a  hill, 
it  is  effectually  sheltered  from  the  dread  mis- 
tral, which,  when  it  blows  here,  seems  to  come 
to  sea-level  at  some  distance  from  the  shore. 
The  effect  is  curious  and  may  have  been  re- 
marked before.  The  sea  inshore  will  be  of  that 
rippling  blue  that  one  associates  with  the  Medi- 
terranean of  the  poets  and  painters,  while  per- 
haps a  league  distant  it  will  roll  up  into  those 
choppy  whitecaps  which  only  the  Mediterra- 
nean possesses  in  all  their  disagreeableness. 
Truly  the  wind-broken  surface  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean in,  or  near,  the  Golfe  de  Lyon  is  some- 
thing to  be  dreaded,  whether  one  is  aboard  a 
liner  bound  for  the  Far  East  or  on  one  of  those 
abominable  little  boats  which  make  the  passage 
to  Corsica  or  Sardinia. 

Hyeres  in  one  of  its  moods  is  almost  tropical 
in  its  softness  with  its  famous  avenue  of  palms 
which  wave  in  the  gentle  breezes  which  spring 


246  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

up  mysteriously  from  nowhere  and  last  for 
about  an  hour  at  midday.  Its  avenues  and 
promenades  are  delightful,  and  there  is  never 
a  suggestion  of  the  snows  which  occasionally 
fall  upon  most  of  the  Riviera  resorts  at  least 
once  during  a  winter.  The  only  snow  one  is 
likely  to  see  at  Hyeres  is  the  white-capped 
Alps  in  the  dim  northeastern  distance,  and  that 
will  be  so  far  away  that  it  will  look  like  a  soft 
fleecy  cloud. 

Hyeres  is  beautiful  from  any  point  of  view, 
even  when  one  enters  it  by  railway  from  Mar- 
seilles, and  even  more  so  —  indescribably  more 
so,  the  writer  thinks  —  when  approaching  by 
the  highroad,  from  Toulon  or  Sollies-Pont, 
awheel  or  "  en  auto." 

Of  all  the  historical  memories  of  Hyeres 
none  is  the  equal  of  that  connected  with  St. 
Louis.  None  will  be  able  to  read  without  emo- 
tion the  memoirs  of  Joinville,  giving  the  details 
of  the  return  of  Louis  IX.  and  his  wife,  Mar- 
guerite de  Provence,  from  the  Crusades.  The 
account  of  their  arrival  "  au  port  d'Yeres 
devant  le  chastel  "  is  most  thrilling.  One  read- 
ily enough  locates  the  site  to-day,  though  the 
outlines  of  the  old  city  walls  and  the  chateau 
have  sadly  suffered  from  the  stress  of  time. 

This  was  a  great  occasion  for  Hyeres;    the 


Hyeres  and  Its  Neighbourhood     247 

greatest  it  has  ever  known,  perhaps.  "  They 
saluted  the  returning  sovereign  with  loud  ac- 
clamations, and  the  standard  of  France  floated 
from  the  donjon  of  the  castle  as  witness  to 
the  fidelity  of  the  inhabitants  for  the  sover- 
eign. ' ' 

The  "  good  King  Bene,"  in  a  later  century, 
had  a  great  affection  for  Hyeres  also,  and  was 
equally  beloved  by  its  inhabitants.  One  of  his 
legacies  to  Jeanne  de  Provence  were  the  salt- 
works of  Hyeres,  which  were  even  then  in  ex- 
istence. 

Hyeres  enjoyed  a  strenuous  enough  life 
through  all  these  years,  but  the  saddest  event  in 
its  whole  career  was  when  the  traitorous  Con- 
netable  de  Bourbon  took  the  chateau  and  turned 
it  over  to  France's  arch-enemy,  Charles  V. 

Charles  IX.  visited  Hyeres  and  remained 
five  days  within  its  walls,  "  his  progress  hav- 
ing been  made  between  two  rows  of  fruit-bear- 
ing orange-trees,  freshly  planted  in  the  streets 
through  which  he  was  to  pass."  This  flattery 
so  pleased  the  monarch  that  he  himself,  so  his- 
tory, or  legend,  states,  carved  the  following 
inscription  upon  the  trunk  of  one  of  those  same 
orange-trees,  "  Caroli  Regis  Amplexu  Glo- 
rior." 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  strips  of  coast-line 


248  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

on  the  whole  Biviera  lies  between  Hyeres  and 
Frejus.  A  narrow-gange  railway  makes  its 
way  almost  at  the  water's  edge  for  the  entire 
distance,  and  the  coast  road,  a  great  depart- 
mental highway,  follows  the  same  route.  The 
distance  is  too  great  —  seventy-five  kilometres 
or  more  —  for  the  pedestrian,  unless  he  is  one 
who  keeps  up  old-time  traditions,  but  neverthe- 
less there  is  but  one  way  to  enjoy  this  ever- 
changing  itinerary  to  the  full,  and  that  is  to 
make  the  journey  somehow  or  other  by  high- 
road. The  automobile,  a  bicycle,  or  a  gentle 
plodding  burro  will  make  the  trip  more  enjoy- 
able than  is  otherwise  conceivable,  even  though 
the  striking  beauties  which  one  sees  from  the 
slow-runing  little  train  give  one  a  glimmer  of 
satisfaction.  Seventy-five  kilometres,  scarce 
fifty  miles!  It  is  nothing  to  an  automobile, 
not  much  more  to  a  bicycle,  and  only  a  two- 
days'  jaunt  for  a  sure-footed  little  donkey, 
which  you  may  hire  anywhere  in  these  parts 
for  ten  francs  a  day,  including  his  keeper. 
No  more  shall  be  said  of  this  altogether  de- 
lightful method  of  travelling  this  short  stretch 
of  wonderland's  roadway,  but  the  suggestion 
is  thrown  out  for  what  it  may  be  worth  to  any 
who  would  taste  the  joys  of  a  new  experience. 
Close    under    the    frowning   height    of    Les 


Hyeres  and  Its  Neighbourhood     249 

Maures  runs  the  coast  road,  for  quite  its  whole 
length  up  to  Frejus,  while  on  the  opposite  side, 
and  beneath,  are  the  surging,  restless  waves 
of  the  Mediterranean. 

First  one  passes  the  Salines  de  Hyeres,  one 
of  those  great  governmental  salt-works  which 
line  the  Mediterranean  coast,  and  soon  reaches 
La  Londe,  famous  for  its  lead  mines  and  the 
rude  gaiety  of  its  seven  or  eight  hundred  work- 
men, who  on  a  Sunday  go  back  to  primitive 
conditions  and  eat,  drink,  and  make  merry  in 
rather  a  Gargantuan  manner.  This  will  not 
have  much  interest  for  the  lover  of  the  beauti- 
ful, but  up  to  this  point  he  will  have  regaled 
himself  with  a  promenade  along  a  beautiful 
sea-bordered  roadway,  whose  opposite  side  has 
been  flanked  with  rose-laurel,  palms,  orange- 
trees,  and  many  exotic  plants  and  shrubs  of 
semi-tropical  lands. 

From  La  Londe  and  its  sordid  industrialism 
one  has  twenty  straight  kilometres  ahead  of 
him  until  he  reaches  Bormes,  a  town  which  has 
been  considered  as  a  possible  rival  to  Nice  and 
Cannes,  but  which  has  never  got  beyond  the 
outlining  of  sumptuous  streets  and  boulevards 
and  the  erecting  of  two  great  hotels  to  which 
visitors  do  not  come.  It  is  an  exquisite  little 
town,  the  old  bourg  parallelled  with  the  tracery 


250  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

of  the  new  streets  and  avenues.  Take  it  all 
in  all,  the  site  is  about  one  of  the  best  in  the 
south  for  a  winter  station,  though  the  non- 
proximity  of  the  sea  —  a  strong  five  kilometres 
away  —  may  account  for  the  slow  growth  of 
Bormes  as  a  popular  resort. 

The  old  town  is  most  picturesque,  its  tor- 
tuous, sloping  streets  ever  mounting  and  de- 
scending and  making  vistas  of  doorways  and 
window  balconies  which  would  make  a  scene- 
painter  green  with  envy,  everything  is  so  the- 
atrical. Like  some  of  the  little  hill-towns  of 
the  country  to  the  westward  of  Aix,  Bormes 
is  a  reflection  of  Italy,  although  it  has  its  own 
characteristics  of  manners  and  customs. 

The  country  immediately  around  this  little 
town  of  less  than  seven  hundred  souls  is  of 
an  incomparable  splendour.  There  is  nothing 
exactly  like  it  to  be  seen  in  the  whole  of  Pro- 
vence. In  every  direction  are  seen  little  scat- 
tered hamlets,  or  a  group  of  two  or  three  little 
houses  hidden  away  amid  groves  of  eucalyptus 
and  thickets  of  mimosa,  while  the  flanking 
panorama  of  Les  Maures  on  one  side,  and  the 
Mediterranean  on  the  other,  gives  it  all  a  set- 
ting which  has  a  grandeur  with  nothing  of  the 
pretentious  or  spectacular  about  it.  It  is  all 
focussed  so  finely,  and  it  is  so  delicately  col- 


Hyeres  and  Its  Neighbourhood     251 

oured  and  outlined  that  it  can  only  be  com- 
pared to  a  pastel. 

The  Bade  de  Bormes,  though  it  really  has 
nothing  to  do  with  Bormes,  a  half  a  dozen  kilo- 
metres distant,  is  another  of  those  delightful 
bays  which  are  scattered  all  along  the  Medi- 
terranean shore.  It  has  all  the  beauty  which 
one's  fancy  pictures,  and  the  maker  of  high- 
coloured  pictures  would  find  his  paradise  along 
its  banks,  for  there  is  a  brilliancy  about  its 
ensemble  that  seems  almost  unnatural. 

In  1482  St.  Francois  de  Paule,  called  to 
France  by  the  death  of  Louis  XI.,  landed  here. 
At  the  time  Bormes  was  stricken  with  a  plague 
or  pest,  and  all  intercourse  with  strangers  was 
forbidden.  But,  when  the  saint  demanded  aid 
and  refreshment  after  his  long  voyage,  it  was 
necessary  to  draw  the  cordon  and  open  the 
gates  of  the  town.  In  return  for  this  hospi- 
tality, it  is  said  by  tradition,  the  holy  man 
cured  miraculously  the  sick  of  the  town.  The 
popular  devotion  to  St.  Francois  de  Paule  ex- 
ists at  Bormes  even  up  to  the  present  day,  in 
remembrance  of  this  fortunate  event. 

The  old  town  itself  is  built  on  the  sloping 
bank  of  a  sort  of  natural  amphitheatre,  in  spite 
of  which  it  is  well  shaded  and  shadowed  by 
numerous  great  banks  of  trees,  while  in  every 


252  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

open  plot  may  be  seen  aloes,  cactus,  agavas, 
immense  geraniums,  and  the  Barbary  fig. 

The  ruins  of  the  feudal  chateau  of  Bormes 
recall  the  memory  of  the  Baroness  Suzanne  de 
Villeneuve,  of  Grasse  and  Bonnes,  who,  in  the 
sixteenth  century,  so  steadfastly  sought  to 
avenge  the  assassination  of  her  husband. 

Bormes  possesses  one  other  historic  monu- 
ment in  the  Hermitage  of  Notre  Dame  de  Con- 
stance, which,  on  a  still  higher  hill,  dominates 
the  town,  and  everything  else  within  the  bound- 
ary of  a  distant  horizon,  in  a  startling  fashion. 

Below,  on  the  outskirts,  is  an  old  chapel  and 
its  surrounding  cemetery,  which,  more  than 
anything  else  in  all  France,  looks  Italian  to 
every  stone. 

One  other  shrine,  this  time  an  artistic  one 
as  well  as  a  religious  one,  gives  Bormes  a  high 
rank  in  the  regard  of  worshippers  of  modern 
art  and  artists.  On  the  little  Place  de  la  Li- 
berte  is  the  Chapelle  St.  Francois  de  Paule, 
where  is  interred  the  remains  of  the  painter 
Cazin. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  is  far  from  the 
sea,  Bormes  has  its  "  faubourg  maritime/'  a 
little  port  which  has  an  exceedingly  active  com- 
merce for  its  size.  In  reality  the  word  port 
is  excessive;    it  is  hardly  more  than  a  beach 


Hyeres  and  Its  Neighbourhood     253 

where  the  fishermen's  boats  are  hauled  up  like 
the  dories  of  down-east  fishermen  in  New  Eng- 
land. There  is  an  apology  for  a  dike  or  mole, 
but  it  is  unusable.  This  will  be  the  future 
ville  de  bains  if  Bormes  ever  really  does  be- 
come a  resort  of  note.  Its  assured  success  is 
not  yet  in  sight,  and  accordingly  Bormes  is 
still  tranquil,  and  there  are  no  noisy  trams  and 
hooting  train-loads  of  excursionists  breaking 
the  stillness  of  its  tranquil  life. 


CHAPTER   V. 

ST.   TROPEZ   AND   ITS   "  GOLFE  " 

From  Bormes  the  route  runs  close  to  the 
shore-line  up  to  the  Baie  de  Cavalaire,  where 
it  cuts  across  a  ten-kilometre  inland  stretch 
and  conies  to  the  sea  again  at  St.  Tropez. 

The  blue  restless  waves,  the  jutting  capes, 
and  the  inlet  bays  and  calanques  make  charm- 
ing combinations  of  land  and  sea  and  sky,  and 
repeat  the  story  already  told.  The  route 
crosses  many  vine-planted  hills  and  valleys, 
through  short  tunnels  and  around  precipitous 
promontories,  but  always  under  the  eyes  is  that 
divinely  beautiful  view  of  the  waters  of  the 
Mediterranean.  The  traveller  finds  no  villages, 
only  little  hamlets  here  and  there,  and  innu- 
merable scattered  country  residences. 

At  Cavalaire  the  mountains  of  the  Maures 
become  less  abrupt,  and  surround  the  bay  in 
a  low  semicircle  of  foot-hills,  quite  different 
from  the  precipitous  "  corniches  "  of  the  Es- 
terel  or  the  mountains  beyond  Nice. 

The  Baie  de  Cavalaire  has  nearly  a  league 

254 


St.  Tropez  and  Its  "  Golfe  »       255 

of  fine  sands;  not  so  extensive  that  they  are 
as  yet  in  demand  as  an  automobile  race-track, 
but  fine  enough  to  rank  as  quite  the  best  of 
their  kind  on  the  whole  Mediterranean  shore 
of  France.  There  will  never  be  a  resort  here 
which  will  rival  Nice  or  Cannes;  these  latter 
have  too  great  a  start ;  but  whatever  does  grow 
up  here  in  the  way  of  a  watering-place  —  a 
railway  station  and  a  Cafe-Restaurant  famous 
for  its _  bouillabaisse  have  already  arrived  — 
will  surpass  them  in  many  respects. 

The  place  has,  moreover,  according  to  med- 
ical reports,  the  least  contrasting  day  and  night 
temperature  in  winter  of  any  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean stations.  This  would  seem  cause 
enough  for  the  founding  here  of  a  great  resort, 
but  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind  nearer  than 
the  little  village  of  Le  Lavandou,  passed  on 
the  road  from  Bormes,  a  hamlet  whose  inhab- 
itants are  too  few  for  the  makers  of  guide- 
books to  number,  but  which  already  boasts  of 
a  Grand  Hotel  and  a  Hotel  des  Strangers. 

At  La  Croix,  just  north  of  the  Baie  de  Cava- 
laire,  has  grown  up  a  little  winter  colony,  con- 
sisting almost  entirely  of  people  from  Lyons. 
It  is  here  that  formerly  existed  some  of  the 
most   celebrated   vineyards   in   Provence,   the 


256  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

plants,  it  is  supposed,  being  originally  brought 
hither  by  the  Saracens. 

The  sudden  breaking  upon  one's  vision  of 
the  ravishing  Golfe  de  St.  Tropez,  with  its 
bordering  fringe  of  palms,  agavas,  and  rose- 
laurels,  and  its  wonderful  parasol-pines,  which 
nowhere  along  the  Riviera  are  as  beautiful 
as  here,  is  an  experience  long  to  be  remem- 
bered. 

The  lovely  little  town  of  St.  Tropez  sleeps 
its  life  away  on  the  shores  of  this  beautiful 
bay,  quite  in  idyllic  fashion,  though  it  does 
boast  of  a  Tribunal  de  Peche  and  of  a  few  small 
craft  floating  in  the  gentle  ripples  of  the  darse, 
the  little  harbour  enclosed  by  moles  of  masonry 
from  the  open  gulf. 

Up  and  down  this  basin  are  groups  of  fine 
parti-coloured  houses,  all  with  a  certain  well- 
kept  and  prosperous  air,  with  nothing  of  the 
sordid  or  base  aspect  about  them,  such  as  one 
sees  on  so  many  watersides.  A  little  square, 
or  place,  forms  an  unusual  note  of  life  and 
colour  with  its  central  statue  of  the  great  sailor, 
Suffren. 

Only  on  this  square  and  on  the  quays  are 
there  any  of  the  modern  attributes  of  twentieth- 
century  life;  the  narrow  but  cleanly  streets 
away  from  the  waterside  are  as  calm  and  som- 


St.  Tropez  and  Its  "  Golfe  "       257 


nolent  as  they  were  before  the  advent  of  elec- 
tricity and  automobiles ;  indeed,  an  automobile 
would  have  a  hard  time  of  it  in  some  of  these 
narrow  ruelles. 

The  near-by  panorama  seen  from  the  quays, 
or  the  end  of  the  stone  pier-head,  is  superb. 
The  whole  contour  of  the  Golfe  is  a  marvel  of 
graceful  curves,  backed  up  with  sloping,  well- 
wooded  hills  and,  still  farther  away,  by  the 
massive  black  of  the  Maures,  the  hill  of  St. 
Raphael,  and  the  red  and  brown  tints  of  the 
Esterel,  while  still  more  distant  to  the  north- 
ward, hanging  in  a  soft  film  of  vapour,  are  the 
peaks  of  the  snowy  Alps. 

By  following  the  old  side  streets,  crowded 
with  overhanging  porches  and  projecting  but- 
tresses, with  here  and  there  a  garden  wall  half- 
hiding  broad-leafed  fig-trees  and  palms,  one 
reaches  the  Promenade  des  Lices,  a  remarkably 
well-placed  and  appointed  promenade,  shaded 
with  great  plane-trees,  in  strong  contrast  to 
the  occasional  pines  and  laurels. 

St.  Tropez 's  history  is  ancient  enough  to 
please  the  most  blase  delver  in  the  things  of 
antiquity.  It  may  have  been  the  Gallo-Grec 
Athenopolis,  or  it  may  have  been  the  Phoeni- 
cian Heraclea  Caccabaria;  but,  at  all  events, 
its  present  growth  came   from  a  foundation 


258  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

which  followed  close  upon  the  death  of  the 
martyr  St.  Tropez  in  the  second  century. 

St.  Tropez,  in  the  days  when  sailing-ships 
had  the  seas  to  themselves,  was  possessed  of  a 
traffic  and  a  commerce  which,  with  the  advent 
of  the  building  of  great  steamships,  lapsed 
into  inconsequential  proportions.  The  yards 
where  the  wooden  ships  were  built  and  fitted 
out  are  deserted,  and  a  part  of  the  population 
has  gone  back  to  the  land  or  taken  to  fishing; 
others  —  the  young  men  —  becoming  gargons 
de  cafe  or  valets  de  chambre  in  the  great  tour- 
ist hotels  of  the  coast ;  or,  rather,  they  did  look 
upon  these  occupations  as  a  bright  and  rosy 
future,  until  the  coming  of  the  automobile, 
since  when  the  peasant  youth  of  France  as- 
pires to  be  a  chauffeur  or  mecanicien. 

A  new  industry  has  recently  sprung  up  at 
St.  Tropez,  the  manufacture  of  electric  cables, 
but  it  has  not  the  picturesqueness,  nor  has  it 
as  yet  reached  anything  like  the  proportions, 
of  the  old  hempen  cordage  industry. 

St.  Tropez  possesses  its  wonderful  Golfe, 
its  gardens,  and  its  "  Petite  Afriqne,"  and  is 
more  and  more  visited  by  Riviera  tourists ;  but 
it  still  awaits  that  great  tide  of  traffic  which 
has  made  more  famous  and  rich  many  other  less 
favoured  Mediterranean  coast  towns.    There  is 


fc3 

s 


Co 


St.  Tropez  and  Its  "  Golfe  "       259 

a  reason  for  all  this;  principally  that  it  faces 
the  mistral's  icy  breath,  for  the  coast-line  has 
here  taken  a  bend  and  the  Golfe  runs  inland 
in  a  westerly  direction,  which  makes  the  town 
face  directly  north.  As  an  offset  to  this  the 
inhabitant  points  out  to  you  that  you  may  re- 
gard the  sea  without  being  troubled  by  the  sun 
shining  in  your  eyes. 

At  the  head  of  the  Golfe  is  La  Foux.  It  sits 
in  the  midst  of  a  sandy  plain,  surrounded  by 
a  border  of  superb  umbrella-pines.  The  chief 
attraction  for  the  visitor  is  the  remarkable 
specimens  of  the  little  horses  of  Les  Maures 
to  be  seen  here.  They  are  known  as  "  les 
Eygnes,"  and  have  preserved  all  the  purity  of 
the  type  first  brought  from  the  Orient  by  the 
Saracens.  Six  centuries  and  more  have  not 
wiped  out  the  Arab  strain  to  anything  like  the 
extent  that  might  be  supposed,  and  accordingly 
the  little  horses  of  Les  Maures  are  vastly  more 
docile  and  agreeable  playmates  than  the  "  pe- 
tits  chevaux  "  of  the  Casinos  of  Monte  Carlo 
and  Nice. 

The  umbrella  or  parasol  pines  of  La  Foux 
are  famous  throughout  the  whole  Riviera. 
Elsewhere  there  are  isolated  examples,  but  here 
there  are  groves  of  them,  all  branching  with 
a  wide-spreading  luxuriance  which  is  quite  at 


260  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

its  best.  It  might  seem  as  though  they  were 
planted  by  the  hand  of  man,  so  decorative  are 
they  to  the  landscape  from  any  point  of  view, 
but  most  of  them  are  of  an  age  that  precludes 
all  thought  of  this. 

The  giant  of  its  race  is  directly  on  the  bank 
of  the  Golfe,  near  the  Chateau  de  Berteaux.  Its 
branches  extend  out  in  every  direction,  like  the 
ribs  of  a  parasol  or  umbrella,  and  its  trunk  is 
thirty  feet  or  more  in  circumference,  while  the 
shadow  from  its  overhanging  branches  makes 
a  great  round  oasis  of  shade  in  the  brilliant 
Mediterranean  sunlight.  The  tree  and  its  posi- 
tion cannot  be  mistaken  by  travellers  by  road 
or  rail,  for  the  railway  itself  has  a  "  halte  " 
almost  beneath  its  branches.  All  around  these 
parasol-pines  push  themselves  up  through  the 
sand  which  has  been  carried  down  into  the 
headwaters  of  the  Golfe  by  the  Mole  and  the 
Giscle,  torrents  which  at  certain  seasons  bring 
down  a  vast  alluvial  deposit  from  the  upper 
valleys  of  Les  Maures. 

It  is  not  far  from  La  Foux  to  the  plain  of 
Cogolin.  A  league  or  more  behind  one  of  the 
first  buttresses  of  Les  Maures,  one  enters  the 
rich  alluvial  prairie  of  Cogolin.  Sheep,  goats, 
and  cows,  and  the  Arabian-blooded  horses, 
which  are  so  much  admired  at  the  courses  at 


St.  Tropez  and  Its  "  Golfe  "       261 

La  Foux,  find  welcome  pasture  here  in  these 
verdant  fields. 

Cogolin  is  not  the  capital  of  the  Golfe  coun- 
try, that  honour  belonging  to  Grimaud,  of  which 
St.  Tropez  is  virtually  the  port;  still,  Cogolin 
is  quite  a  little  metropolis,  and  is  the  centre 
of  the  liveliest  happenings  of  all  the  region  be- 
tween Hyeres  and  Frejus.  The  town  has  two 
different  aspects,  one  banal  and  modern,  and 
the  other  picturesque  and  feudal,  recalling  the 
thirteenth-century  days  of  the  Grimaldis,  who 
built  the  chateau  of  which  the  present  belfry 
formed  a  part. 

Cogolin  is  uninteresting  enough  in  its  newer 
parts,  but  as  one  ascends  the  slope  of  the  hill 
on  which  the  town  is  built  it.  grows  more  and 
more  picturesque  until,  when  the  lower  town 
is  actually  lost  sight  of,  it  finally  takes  rank 
as  a  delightful  old-world  place,  with  scarce  a 
note  of  the  twentieth  century  about  it,  where 
they  still  bring  water  from  the  public  fountain 
and  most  of  the  shops  of  the  smaller  kind  trans- 
act their  business  on  the  sidewalk  —  where 
there  is  one. 

There  is  a  peculiar  odour  all  over  Cogolin, 
which  comes  from  the  manufacture  of  corks 
and  queer-looking  "  whisk-brooms."  It's  not  a 
bad  or  unhealthful  smell,  but  it  is  peculiar,  and 


262  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

many  will  not  like  it.  From  Cogolin  all  roads 
lead  to  the  heart  of  the  Maures,  and  the  stream 
of  carts  loaded  with  great  slabs  of  cork  is  in- 
cessant. 

Here,  as  in  many  other  parts  of  Les  Maures, 
the  manufacture  of  corks  is  an  industry  which 
furnishes  a  livelihood  to  many.  The  work- 
rooms of  the  cork-makers,  to  attract  clients  or 
amuse  the  populace  —  the  writer  doesn't  know 
which  —  are  often  in  full  view  from  the  street. 
Certainly  it  is  amusing  to  see  a  workman  stamp 
out,  or  cut  out,  the  corks  and  drop  them  into 
a  waiting  basket,  as  if  they  were  plums  gath- 
ered from  a  tree.  In  the  larger  establishments, 
where  the  work  is  done  by  machinery,  the  pro- 
cess is  more  complicated,  and  less  interesting, 
and  the  writer  did  not  see  that  any  better  re- 
sults were  obtained. 

The  whole  region  of  Les  Maures  is  domi- 
nated by  the  chene-liege,  or  the  cork-oak.  Usu- 
ally they  are  great,  straight-trunked  trees  with 
a  heavy  foliage.  Some  still  possess  their  nat- 
ural brown  trunks,  and  some  are  a  gray  fawn 
colour,  showing  that  they  are  already  aged  and 
have  been  many  times  robbed  of  their  bark  for 
the  manufacture  of  floats  for  the  fisherman's 
nets  and  corks  for  bottles.  The  first  coat  which 
is  stripped  has  no  mercantile  value,  and  the 


St.  Tropez  and  Its  "  Golfe  "       263 


trunk  is  left  to  heal  itself  as  best  it  may,  the 
sap  oozing  out  and  forming  another  skin,  which 
in  due  time  forms  the  cork-bark  of  commerce. 

The  trees  are  stripped  only  in  part  at  one 
time,  else  they  would  perish.  The  first  market- 
able crop  is  gathered  in  ten  or  a  dozen  years, 
and  it  takes  another  decade  before  the  same 
portion  can  be  again  obtained. 

This  cork-bark  industry  means  a  fortune  to 
Les  Maures  and  its  rather  scanty  population. 
The  discovery,  or  real  development,  of  the  in- 
dustry was  due  to  a  lonesome  shepherd,  who, 
finding  how  soft  and  compressible  the  bark  of 
the  chene-liege  really  was,  manufactured  a  few 
corks  to  pass  the  time  while  watching  his  flocks, 
taking  them  at  the  first  opportunity  to  town, 
to  see  if  he  could  find  a  market,  which,  need- 
less to  say,  he  did  immediately.  The  account 
has  something  of  a  legendary  flavour  about  it, 
but  no  doubt  the  discovery  was  made  in  just 
such  a  way. 

Cogolin  has  another  industry  which,  in  its 
way,  is  considerable,  —  the  manufacture  of 
briar  pipes,  though  mostly  it  is  the  gathering 
of  the  briar-roots  which  makes  the  industry, 
the  actual  fashioning  of  the  pipes  themselves 
being  carried  on  most  extensively  at  St.  Claude 
in  the  Jura,  to  which  point  many  train-loads 


264  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

of  the  roots  are  sent  each  year.  Just  why  the 
industry  should  be  carried  on  so  far  from  the 
source  of  supply  of  the  raw  material  is  one  of 
the  problems  that  economists  are  trying  always 
to  solve,  but  the  traffic  clings  tenaciously  to 
the  customs  of  old.  When  Les  Maures  goes 
in  for  the  manufacture  of  briar  pipes  on  a  large 
scale  there  will  be  a  new  and  increased  pros- 
perity for  the  inhabitants ;  this  in  spite  of  the 
growing  consumption  of  the  deadly  cigarette, 
which,  in  France,  is  made  of  something  which 
looks  amazingly  like  cabbage-stalk  —  and  a 
poor  quality  at  that.  The  contempt  for  French 
tobacco  is  of  long  duration.  It  is  recalled  that 
a  certain  minister  under  Charles  X.  was  in- 
vited to  smoke  smuggled  tobacco  at  a  friend's 
house,  and  was  implored  to  use  his  influence 
to  the  substituting  of  the  same  grade  of  tobacco 
for  the  poisonous  cabbage-leaf  then  grown  in 
France.  His  reply  was  appreciative  but  non- 
committal, and  so  the  thing  has  gone  on  to  this 
day,  and  the  French  public  smokes  uncomplain- 
ingly a  very  ordinary  tobacco. 

Three  kilometres  distant  sits  Grimaud,  snug 
and  serene  on  the  terrace  of  a  mountainside, 
overlooking  Cogolin  and  the  Golfe,  and  all  its 
environment.  The  little  town  has  all  the  char- 
acteristics  of  its  neighbours,  with  perhaps  a 


St.  Tropez  and  Its  "  Golfe  "       265 

superabundance  of  shade-trees  for  a  place 
which  has  not  very  ample  streets  and  squares. 
At  the  apex  of  the  ascending  ruelles  is  a  cone 
which  is  surmounted  by  the  pathetic  ruins  of 
the  old  chateau  of  the  Grimaldi.  Without 
grandeur  and  without  life,  this  chateau  is  in 
strong  contrast  with  the  palace  of  the  present 
members  of  the  ancient  house  of  Grimaldi,  the 
Prince  of  Monaco  and  his  family. 

The  ruins  of  Grimaud's  chateau  are,  to  be 
sure,  a  whited  sepulchre,  and  a  dismal  one,  but 
the  view  from  the  platform  is  one  of  great 
beauty.  Les  Maures  forms  an  encircling  cor- 
don, through  which  the  brilliance  of  the  Golfe 
breaks  toward  the  south.  In  the  twilight  of  an 
early  June  evening  the  effect  will  be  surprising 
and  grateful  in  its  quiet  grandeur;  a  welcome 
change  after  the  refulgence  of  the  Alpine  glow 
of  Switzerland  and  the  gorgeous,  bloody  sun- 
sets of  the  Mediterranean  coast  towns. 

After  a  meditation  here,  one  will  be  in  the 
proper  mood  for  the  repose  which  awaits  him 
at  "  Annibal's  "  in  the  town  below.  It  is  not 
grand,  this  little  hotel  of  M.  Annibal,  but  it 
is  typical  of  the  pays,  and  you,  as  likely  as 
not,  ate  your  dinner  on  a  little  balcony  over- 
looking a  little  tree-bordered  place,  which  has 
already  put  you  in  a  soulful  mood.    When  you 


266  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

return  from  the  chateau,  you  will  need  no 
sedative  to  make  you  sleejD,  and  you  will  bless 
the  good  fortune  which  brought  you  thither  — 
if  you  are  a  true  vagabond  and  not  a  devotee 
of  the  "  resorts."  The  latter  class  are  ad- 
vised to  keep  away;  Grimaud  would  "  bore 
them  stiff,"  as  a  strenuous  American,  who  was 
' '  doing  ' '  the  Riviera  on  a  motor-cycle,  told  the 
writer. 

La  Garde-Freinet  next  calls  one,  and  it  must 
not  be  ignored  by  any  who  would  know  what 
a  real  mountain  town  in  France  is  like.  It  is 
different  from  what  it  is  in  Switzerland  or  the 
Tyrol ;  in  fact,  it  is  not  like  anything  anywhere 
else.  It  is  simply  a  distinctively  French  small 
town  nestling  in  the  heart  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean coast  range,  and  cut  off  from  most  of  the 
distractions  of  civilization,  except  newspapers 
(twenty-four  hours  old)  and  the  post  and  tele- 
graph. 

La  Garde-Freinet  sits  almost  upon  the  very 
crest  of  the  Chaine  des  Matures.  The  road 
from  Grimaud,  which  is  but  a  dozen  kilometres 
or  so,  rises  constantly  through  rocky  escarp- 
ments like  a  route  in  Corsica,  which  indeed  the 
whole  region  of  Les  Maures  resembles. 

All  is  solitude  and  of  that  quietness  which 
one  only  observes  on  a  lonely  mountain  road, 


St.  Tropez  and  Its  "  Golfe  "       267 

while  all  around  is  a  girdle  of  tree-clad  peaks, 
not  gigantic,  perhaps,  but  sufficiently  imposing 
to  give  one  the  impression  that  the  road  is 
mounting  steadily  all  of  the  way,  which,  even 
in  these  days  of  hill-climbing  automobiles,  is 
something  which  is  bound  to  be  remarked  by 
the  traveller  by  road. 

Finally  one  comes  in  sight  of  the  old  Saracen 
fortress  of  Fraxinet,  or  Freinet,  from  which 
the  present  town  of  something  less  than  two 
thousand  souls  takes  its  name.  It  stands  out 
in  the  clear  brilliance  of  the  Provencal  sky, 
as  if  one  might  reach  out  his  hand  and  touch 
its  walls,  though  it  is  a  hundred  or  more  metres 
above  the  town,  which  finally  one  reaches 
through  the  usual  narrow  entrance  possessed  by 
most  French  towns  whether  they  are  of  the 
mountain  or  the  plain. 

It  was  from  just  such  fortified  heights  as 
this  that  the  Saracens  were  able  to  command 
all  Provence  and  the  valley  of  the  Rhone  up 
to  the  Jura.  Concerning  these  far-away  times, 
and  the  exact  movements  of  the  Saracens,  his- 
torians are  not  very  precise,  and  a  good  deal 
has  to  be  taken  on  faith ;  but  where  monuments 
were  left  behind  to  tell  the  story,  albeit  they 
were  mostly  fortresses,  enough  has  come  down 
to  allow  one  to  build  up  a  fabric  which  will 


268  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

give  a  more  or  less  just  view  of  the  extent 
of  the  Saracen  influence  which  swept  over 
southern  Gaul  from  the  eighth  to  the  tenth 
centuries. 

They  made  one  of  their  greatest  strongholds 
here  on  the  Pic  du  Fraxinet  ("  the  place 
planted  with  frenes  "),  and,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  they  were  sooner  or  later  driven  from 
their  position,  as  history  does  tell  in  this  case, 
their  descendants,  becoming  Christians,  were 
the  ancestors  of  the  present  growers  of  mul- 
berry-trees and  cork-oaks,  and  tenders  of  silk- 
worms, which  form  the  principal  occupations  of 
the  inhabitants  of  La  Garde-Freinet  to-day. 

Any  one,  with  the  least  eye  for  the  fair  sex, 
will  note  the  fact  that  the  women  of  La  Garde- 
Freinet  —  the  Fraxinetaines  of  the  ethnologists 
—  have  a  unique  kind  of  beauty  greatly  to  be 
admired.  They  are  not  as  beautiful  as  the 
women  of  Aries,  to  whom  the  palm  must  al- 
ways be  given  among  the  women  of  France; 
but  they  are  well-formed,  with  beautiful  hair, 
great,  liquid  black  eyes,  oval  faces,  and  plump, 
well-formed  arms,  justifying,  even  to-day,  the 
beauty  which  they  are  supposed  to  have  ac- 
quired from  their  Moorish  ancestors. 

There  are  no  monuments  at  La  Garde-Frei- 
net except  the  ruined,  dominant  fortress,  but 


St.  Tropez  and  Its  "  Golfe  "       269 

for  all  that  the  pilgrimage  is  one  worth  the 
making,  if  only  for  glimpses  of  those  wonder- 
fully beautiful  women,  or  for  the  delightful 
journey  thither. 

From  La  Foux  and  Grimaud  one  rapidly 
advances  toward  the  Esterel,  that  sheltering 
range  of  reddish,  rocky  mountains  which  makes 
Cannes  and  La  Napoule  what  they  are. 

St.  Tropez  and  its  tall  white  houses  are  left 
behind,  and  the  shores  of  the  Golfe  are  fol- 
lowed until  one  comes  to  the  most  ancient  town 
of  Ste.  Maxime.  Unlike  St.  Tropez,  Ste.  Max- 
ime,  though  only  thirty  minutes  away  by  boat, 
across  the  mouth  of  the  Golfe,  has  not  the 
penetrating  mistral  for  a  scourge.  On  the 
other  hand  one  does  get  'the  sun  in  his  eyes 
when  he  wishes  to  view  the  sea,  and  has  not 
that  magically  coloured  curtain  of  the  Esterel, 
with  all  its  varied  reds  and  browns,  before  his 
eyes.  One  cannot  have  everything  as  he  wishes, 
even  on  the  Eiviera.  If  he  has  the  view,  he 
often  has  also  the  mistral;  and,  if  he  finds  a 
place  that  is  really  sheltered  from  the  mistral, 
it  has  a  more  or  less  restricted  view,  and  a  cli- 
mate which  the  doctors  and  invalids  call  "  re- 
laxing, ' '  whatever  that  arbitrary  term  may 
mean. 

Here  in  the  Golfe  de  St.  Tropez,  at  St.  Tro- 


270  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

pez,  at  La  Foux,  and  at  Ste.  Maxime,  one  sees 
again  those  great  tartanes  and  balancelles,  the 
great  white-winged  craft  which  fly  about  the 
Mediterranean  coasts  of  France  with  all  the 
idyllic  picturesqueness  of  old. 

There  are  still  twenty  kilometres  before  one 
reaches  Frejus,  the  first  town  of  real  latter- 
day  importance  since  passing  Toulon,  and  this, 
too,  in  spite  of  its  great  antiquity.  Other  of 
the  coast  towns  have  risen  or  degenerated  into 
mere  resorts,  but  Frejus  holds  its  own  as  the 
centre  of  affairs  for  a  very  considerable  region. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

FREJUS   AND   THE   CORNICHE   D'OR 

Twenty  kilometres  beyond  Ste.  Maxime  one 
comes  to  the  Grolfe  de  Frejus  and  its  neighbour- 
ing towns  of  Frejus  and  St.  Raphael,  the 
former  the  ville  commergant  and  the  latter  the 
ville  d'eau. 

As  with  Aries,  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhone, 
one  may  well  say  of  Frejus  that  the  town  and 
its  environs  form  a  veritable  open-air  museum. 
It  will  be  true  to  add  also,  in  this  case,  that  the 
museum  has  a  far  greater  area  than  at  Aries, 
for  Frejus,  and  the  antiquities  directly  con- 
nected with  it,  cover  a  radius  of  at  least  forty 
kilometres. 

The  Romans,  the  great  builders  of  baths  and 
aqueducts,  set  a  great  store  by  water,  and  in- 
deed classed  it  as  among  the  greatest  blessings 
of  mankind.  No  labour  was  too  great,  and 
expense  was  never  thought  of,  when  it  came  to 
a  question  of  building  these  great  artificial 
waterways  which,  even  unto  to-day,  are  known 
as  aqueducts  the  world  over.     One  of  their 

271 


272  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

greatest  works  of  the  kind  led  to  Frejus,  and 
two  of  its  arches  stand  gaunt  and  grim  to-day 
in  the  midst  of  a  fence-paled  field.  There  is 
also  a  sign  attached  to  one  of  the  fence-posts 
which  reads  as  follows: 


DEFENSE    ABSOLUE 

DE     PENETRER 

DANS     LE    PROPRIE'TE' 


This  sign-board  does  not  look  as  durable  as 
the  moss-grown  old  arches  over  which  it  stands 
sentinel;  perhaps  some  day  the  stress  of  time 
(or  some  other  reason)  will  cause  it  to  disap- 
pear. 

The  remains  of  this  great  aqueduct  of  other 
days  prove  conclusively  the  great  regard  and 
hope  which  the  Romans  must  have  had  for  the 
Forum  Julii  of  Julius  Caesar,  for  all,  without 
question,  attribute  the  foundation  of  Frejus 
to  the  conqueror  of  the  Gauls. 

The  evolution  of  the  name  of  Frejus  is  read- 
ily enough  followed,  though  the  present  name, 
coming  down  through  Forojuliens  and  Fre- 
jules,  is  a  sad  corruption.  Of  this  evolution  the 
authorities  are  not  very  certain,  and  call  it 
"  une  tradition  et  non  un  fait  historiquement 
prouve."    It  is  satisfying  enough  to  most,  how- 


Frejus  and  the  Corniche  d'Or      273 

ever,  so  let  it  stand;  and  anyway  we  have  the 
words  of  Tacitus,  who  said  that  his  brother- 
in-law,  Agricola,  was  born  at  "  the  ancient  and 
illustrious  colony  of  Forojuliens." 

Frejus  is  prolific  in  quaint  customs  and 
legends  too  numerous  to  mention,  though  two, 
at  least,  stand  out  so  plainly  in  the  memory 
of  the  writer  that  they  are  here  recounted. 

On  a  certain  occasion  in  August,  —  not  the 
usual  season  for  tourists,  but  genuine  travel- 
lovers,  having  no  season,  go  anywhere  at  any 
time,  —  as  the  town  was  entered  by  the  high- 
road, our  automobile  was  abruptly  stopped  at 
the  bar  Here  by  a  motley  crew  clad  in  all  manner 
of  military  costumes,  like  the  armies  of  the 
South  American  republics.  Firearms,  too, 
were  there,  and  when  a  grenadier  of  the  time 
of  Louis-Philippe  let  off  a  smoky  charge  of 
gunpowder  under  our  very  noses,  it  was  a  sig- 
nal for  a  general  feu-de-joie  which  might  have 
rivalled  a  Fourth  of  July  celebration  in  the 
United  States,  for  the  disaster  which  it  bid  fair 
to  bring  in  its  wake.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  noth- 
ing happened,  and  we  were  allowed  to  proceed 
in  peace,  though  the  sleep-destroying  cannon- 
ade was  kept  up  throughout  the  night. 

The  occasion  was  nothing  but  the  annual 
celebration  of  "  Les  Bravadeurs,"  a  survival 


274  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

of  the  days  of  Louis  XIV.,  when  the  town,  being 
left  without  a  garrison,  raised  a  motley  army 
of  its  own  to  serve  in  place  of  the  troops  of 
the  king. 

There  is  a  legend,  too,  concerning  the  land- 
ing of  St.  Frangois  de  Paule  here,  which  the 
native  is  fond  of  telling  the  stranger,  but  which 
needs  something  more  than  the  proverbial 
grain  of  salt  to  go  with  it,  because  St.  Frangois 
is  claimed  to  have  first  put  foot  on  shore  at 
various  other  points  along  the  coast. 

The  story  is  to  the  effect  that  the  ship  which 
bore  the  holy  man  from  the  East  having  foun- 
dered, or  not  having  been  sufficiently  sea- 
worthy to  continue  the  voyage,  St.  Frangois 
stepped  overboard  and  walked  ashore  on  the 
waves.  He  did  not  walk  on  the  waves  them- 
selves in  this  case,  but  laid  his  mantle  upon 
them  and  walked  on  that.  What  he  did  when 
he  came  to  the  edge  of  his  mantle  tradition 
does  not  state. 

The  ecclesiastical  and  political  history  of 
Frejus  is  most  interesting,  though  it  cannot  be 
epitomized  here.  Two  significant  Napoleonic 
events  of  the  early  nineteenth  century  stand 
out  so  strongly,  however,  that  they  perforce 
must  be  mentioned. 

In  1809  Pope  Pius  VII.  stopped  at  Frejus 


Frejus  and  the  Corniche  d'Or      275 

when  he  was  making  his  way  to  Fontainebleau, 
more  or  less  unwillingly,  as  history  tells.  Five 
years  later  the  Holy  Father  again  stopped  at 
Frejus  on  his  return  to  Italy,  and  Napoleon 
himself,  on  the  27th  of  the  following  April, 
awaiting  the  moment  of  his  departure  for  Elba, 
occupied  the  very  apartment  that  had  received 
the  pontiff. 

Of  the  architectural  and  historical  monu- 
ments of  Frejus  one  must  at  least  take  cogni- 
zance of  the  Baptistery,  one  of  the  few  of  its 
class  out  of  Italy  and  dating  from  some  period 
previous  to  the  tenth  century.  Architecturally 
it  is  not  a  great  structure,  neither  is  it  such 
in  size;  but  its  very  existence  here,  well  over 
into  Gaul,  marks  a  distinct  era  in  the  Chris- 
tianizing and  church-building  efforts  of  those 
early  times.  The  cathedral  at  Frejus  is  by  no 
means  of  equal  archaeological  importance  to 
this  tiny  Baptistery,  though  the  bishopric  it- 
self was  founded  as  early  as  the  fourth  cen- 
tury, and  at  least  one  of  its  early  bishops  be- 
came a  Pope  (Jean  XXII.,  1316-34). 

Here,  there,  and  everywhere  around  the  en- 
circling avenues  of  the  town  are  to  be  seen  the 
remains  of  the  old  city  walls,  which  in  later 
years,  even  in  the  middle  ages,  sunk  more  and 
more  into  disuse,  from  the  fact  that  the  city 


276  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

has  continually  dwindled  in  size,  until  to-day 
it  covers  only  about  one-fifth  of  its  former  area. 

The  old  aqueduct  of  Frejus,  a  relic  of  Roman 
days  and  Roman  ways,  is  the  chief  monumental 
wonder  of  the  neighbourhood.  It  has  long  been 
in  a  ruinous  state  of  disuse,  though  its  decay 
is  merely  that  incident  to  time,  for  it  was  mar- 
vellously well  built  of  small  stones  without  or- 
nament of  any  kind. 

At  Frejus  there  are  also  remains  of  a  Roman 
theatre,  now  nothing  more  than  a  mass  of 
debris,  though  one  easily  traces  its  diameter 
as  having  been  something  approaching  two 
hundred  feet. 

The  arena  of  Frejus  is  in  quite  as  dismantled 
a  state  as  the  theatre,  one  of  the  principal  road- 
ways now  passing  through  its  centre,  so  that 
to-day  the  monument  is  hardly  more  than  a 
great  open  Place  at  the  crossing  of  four  roads. 
From  the  grandeur  of  the  structure,  as  it  must 
once  have  been,  it  is  a  monument  comparable 
in  many  ways  with  those  better  preserved  and 
more  magnificent  arenas  at  Aries  and  Nimes. 

From  this  resume  of  some  of  the  chief  monu- 
ments of  the  Roman  occupation  one  gathers 
that  Frejus  was  carefully  planned  as  a  great 
city  of  residence  and  pleasure ;  and  so  it  really 
was,  with  the  added  importance  which  its  posi- 


Frejus  and  the  Corniche  d'Or      277 


4; 


278  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

tion,  both  with  regard  to  the  routes  by  sea  and 
land,  gave  to  it  in  a  commercial  sense. 

From  Frejus  to  St.  Raphael  is  a  bare  three 
kilometres.  St.  Raphael  boasts  as  many  inhab- 
itants as  Frejus,  but  it  is  mostly  a  city  of  pleas- 
ure, and  has  no  monuments  of  a  past  age  to 
suggest  that  even  a  reflected  glory  from  Frejus 
ever  shone  over  its  site.  To-day  the  plain 
which  lies  between  the  two  towns  is  dotted  here 
and  there  with  palatial  residences:  "  C'est 
tout  palais,"  the  native  tells  you,  and  he  is  not 
far  wrong,  but  in  a  former  day  it  was  a  broad 
bay,  where  floated  the  galleys  of  Caesar  and 
Augustus. 

There  was  some  sort  of  a  feudal  town  here 
in  the  middle  ages,  but  it  never  grew  to  his- 
torical or  artistic  importance,  and  the  town  was 
little  known  until  the  advent  of  Alphonse  Karr 
and  his  fellows,  who  made  of  it,  or  at  least 
intimated  that  it  could  be  made,  what  it  is  to- 
day,—  a  "winter  resort,"  or,  as  the  French 
have  it,  a  "  station  hivernale."  It  is  a  very 
simple  expression,  but  one  which  leads  to  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  misunderstanding  among  the 
newcomers,  who  think  that  they  have  only  to 
take  up  their  residence,  from  November  to 
March,  anywhere  along  the  shores  of  the  Medi- 
terranean east  of  Marseilles  to  swelter  in  trop- 


CO 


Frejus  and  the  Corniche  d'Or      279 


ical  sunshine.  This  they  will  not  do,  and  un- 
less they  keep  indoors  between  five  and  seven 
in  the  evening  on  most  days,  they  will  get  a 
chill  which  will  not  only  go  to  the  marrow,  but 
as  like  as  not  will  carry  pneumonia  with  it; 
that  is,  if  one  dresses  in  what  are  commonly 
called  "  summer  clothes,"  the  kind  that  are 
pictured  in  the  posters  which  decorate  the  dull 
walls  of  the  railway  stations  as  being  suitable 
for  the  life  of  the  Riviera. 

St.  Raphael  is  not  wholly  given  up  to  pleas- 
ure, for  it  is  a  notable  fact  that  in  industrial 
enterprise  it  has  already  surpassed  Frejus, 
due  principally  to  a  vast  traffic  in  bauxite,  a 
clay  from  which  aluminium  is  obtained,  and 
there  are  always  at  its  quays  steamers  from 
England,  Germany,  and  Holland  loading  the 
reddish  earth. 

Nevertheless,  St.  Raphael  is  in  the  main  a 
city  of  villas,  less  pretentious  than  those  of 
Cannes,  but  still  villas  in  the  general  meaning 
of  the  word.  There  is  one  called  locally  (in 
Provencal)  the  "  Oustalet  du  Capelan  "  (The 
House  of  the  Cure),  which  was  a  long  time 
occupied  by  Gounod.  Lovers  of  the  master  and 
his  works  will  make  of  it  a  musical  shrine  and 
place  of  pilgrimage.    An  inscription  over  the 


280 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


door  recalls  that  in  this  house  Gounod  com- 
posed "  Romeo  et  Juliette." 

The  Maison  Close,  inhabited  by  Alphonse 
Karr,  is  literally  a  maison  close,  for  it  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  high  wall,  and  the  most  that  one 


'ose 


Maison  Close,  St.  Raphael 

can  see  and  admire  is  the  suggestion  of  the 
wonderful  garden  behind.  In  Karr's  time  it 
must  have  been  a  highly  satisfactory  retreat, 
and  no  wonder  he  found  it  not  difficult  to  let 
the  rush  of  the  world  go  by  with  unconcern. 
Hamon,  the  landscape  painter,  was  another 


Frejus  and  the  Corniche  d'Or      281 

devotee  of  St.  Raphael,  and  he  described  it  as 
"  la  campagne  de  Rome  an  fond  du  Golfe  du 
Naples;  "  it  needs  not  a  great  stretch  of  the 
imagination  to  follow  the  simile. 

In  spite  of  the  expectations  of  a  former  gen- 
eration of  landlords  and  landowners,  St.  Ra- 
phael, progressive  as  it  has  been,  has  never 
grown  up  on  the  lines  upon  which  it  was 
planned.  The  grand  boulevards  and  avenues 
came  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  the  great 
hotels,  and,  ultimately,  the  inevitable  casino 
and  its  attendant  attractions ;  but,  nevertheless, 
St.  Raphael  has  remained  a  ville  des  villas,  and 
the  population  has  mostly  gone  to  the  suburban 
hillsides,  especially  around  Valesclure,  where 
new  houses  are  springing  up  like  mushrooms, 
all  built  of  that  white  sandstone  which  flashes 
so  brilliantly  in  the  sunlight  against  the  back- 
ground of  the  green-clad,  reddish-brown  Este- 
rel. 

The  Esterel  is  a  coast  range  of  mountains  as 
different  from  Les  Maures,  their  neighbour  to 
the  westward,  as  could  possibly  be,  in  colour, 
in  outline,  and  in  climatic  influences,  and  these 
to  no  little  extent  have  a  decided  effect  on  the 
manners  and  customs  of  the  people  who  live 
in  the  neighbourhood. 

The  contrast  between  the  mountains  of  Les 


282  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

Maures  and  the  Esterel  is  most  marked.  The 
former  are  more  sober  and  less  accentuated 
than  the  latter  range,  and  there  is  more  of  the 
culture  of  the  olive  to  be  noted  in  the  valleys, 
and  of  the  oak  on  the  hillsides.  In  the  Esterel 
all  is  brilliant,  with  a  colouring  that  is  more 
nearly  a  deep  rosy  red  than  that  of  any  other 
rock  formation  to  be  seen  in  France.  Coupled 
with  the  blue  of  the  Mediterranean,  the  red- 
dish rocks,  the  green  hillsides,  and  the  delicate 
skies  make  as  fantastic  a  colour-scheme  as  was 
ever  conceived  by  the  artist's  brush. 

The  Eoute  d'ltalie  passes  to  the  north  of  the 
Esterel  crest,  and  is  one  of  those  remarkable 
series  of  roadways  which  cross  and  recross 
France,  and  may  be  considered  the  direct  de- 
scendants of  the  military  roads  laid  out  by  the 
Eomans,  and  developed  and  perfected  by  Na- 
poleon. To-day  a  generously  endowed  depart- 
ment of  the  French  government  tenderly  cares 
for  them,  with  the  result  that  the  roads  of 
France  have  become  one  of  the  most  precious 
possessions  of  the  nation. 

Until  very  recent  times  the  great  mountain 
and  forest  tract  of  the  Esterel  had  remained 
unknown  and  untravelled,  save  so  far  as  the 
railway  followed  along  the  coast,  and  the  great 


Frejus  and  the  Corniche  d'Or      283 

Route  d'ltalie  bounded  it  on  the  north,  or  at 
least  bounded  the  mountain  slopes. 

All  this  has  recently  been  changed,  and, 
where  once  were  only  narrow  foot-paths  and 
roads,  made  use  of  by  the  shepherds  and  peas- 
ants, there  are  a  broad  and  elegant  highway 
flanking  the  indentations  of  the  coast-line,  and 
many  interior  routes  crossing  and  recrossing 
one  of  the  most  lovely  and  unspoiled  wild- 
woods  still  to  be  seen  in  France.  There  are 
other  parts  much  more  wild,  the  Cevennes  or 
the  Vivarais,  for  instance;  but  they  have  not 
a  tithe  of  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  the  red 
porphyry  rocks  of  the  Esterel  combined  with 
the  blue  waters  of  the  Mediterranean  and  the 
forest-covered  flanks  of  its  mountain  range. 

From  Frejus,  St.  Raphael,  or  La  Napoule, 
or  even  Cannes,  one  may  enter  the  Esterel  and 
lose  himself  to  the  world,  if  he  likes,  for  a  mat- 
ter of  a  week,  or  ten  days,  or  a  fortnight,  and 
never  so  much  as  have  a  suspicion  of  the  con- 
ventional Riviera  gaieties  which  are  going  on 
so  close  at  hand. 

The  "  Corniche  d'Or  "  of  the  Esterel,  as  the 
coast  road  is  known,  was  only  completed  in 
1893,  and  as  a  piece  of  modern  roadway-mak- 
ing is  the  peer  of  any  of  its  class  elsewhere. 
The   record   of  its  building,   and  the   public- 


284  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

spirited  assistance  which  was  given  the  project 
on  all  sides,  would,  or  should,  put  to  shame 
those  road-building  organizations  of  England 
and  America  which  for  the  most  part  have 
aided  the  good-roads  movement  with  merely 
an  unlimited  supply  of  talk  about  what  was 
going  to  be  done. 

As  a  roadway  of  scenic  surprises  the  "  Cor- 
niche  d'Or  "  of  the  Esterel  is  the  peer  of  the 
better  known  rival  beyond  Nice,  though  it  has 
nothing  to  excel  that  superb  half-dozen  kilo- 
metres just  before,  and  after,  Monte  Carlo  and 
Monaco. 

The  interior  route  of  the  Esterel,  the  Route 
d'ltalie,  mounts  to  an  altitude  of  three  hun- 
dred metres,  while  the  "  Corniche  "  is  prac- 
tically level,  with  no  hills  which  would  tire  the 
least  muscular  cyclist  or  the  weakest-powered 
automobile. 

Since  the  beginning  of  the  transformation  of 
the  Esterel  two  hundred  and  forty  kilometres 
of  new  roadways  have  been  laid  out.  After 
this  great  work  was  finished  came  the  question 
of  erecting  sign-boards  along  the  various  routes 
and  chemins  and  carrefours  and  bifurcations, 
and  the  work  was  not  treated  in  a  parsimonious 
fashion.  Within  the  first  year  of  the  comple- 
tion of  the  road-building  over  two  hundred  im- 


On  the  Corniche  dJOr 


Frejus  and  the  Corniche  d'Or      285 

portant  and  legible  signs  were  erected  by  the 
efforts  of  a  wealthy  resident  of  St.  Raphael, 
with  the  result  that  the  value  of  the  Esterel 
as  a  great  "  pare  nationale  "  became  apparent 
to  many  who  had  previously  never  even  heard 
of  it. 

This  delightful  tract  of  unspoiled  wildwood 
is  bounded  on  the  north  by  the  Route  d'ltalie, 
while  the  ingeniously  planned  ' '  Corniche  ' '  fol- 
lows the  coast-line  all  the  way  to  Cannes,  which 
is  really  the  door  by  which  one  enters  the  Rivi- 
era of  the  guide-books  and  the  winter  tourists. 

The  "  Corniche  d'Or,"  its  inception  and  con- 
struction, was  really  due  to  the  efforts  of  the 
omnific  "  Touring  Club  de  France."  For- 
merly the  way  by  the  coast  was  but  a  narrow 
track,  ora  "  Sentier  de  Douane.  To-day  it  is 
an  ample  roadway  along  its  whole  length,  on 
which  one  has  little  fear  of  speeding  automo- 
biles for  the  simple  reason  that  the  jutting 
capes  and  promontories  of  porphyry  rock  are 
death-dealing  in  their  abruptness  and  fre- 
quency, and  no  automobilist  who  is  sane  —  let 
it  be  here  emphasized  —  takes  such  dangerous 
risks. 

The  forest  and  mountain  region  of  the  Este- 
rel between  those  two  encircling  strips  of  road- 
way is  possessed  of  a  wonderful  fascination 


286  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

for  those  who  are  brain-fagged  or  town-tired; 
and  to  roam,  even  on  foot,  along  these  by- 
paths for  a  few  days  will  give  a  whole  new 
view  of  life  to  any  who  are  disposed  to  try 
it.  If  one  purchases  the  excellent  map  of  the 
region  issued  by  the  "  Touring  Club  de 
France,"  or  even  the  five-colour  map  of  the 
"  Service  Vicinal  "  of  the  French  government, 
he  will  have  no  fear  of  losing  his  way  among 
the  myriads  of  paths  and  roadways  with  which 
the  whole  region  is  threaded. 

One  first  enters  the  "  Route  de  la  Corniche  " 
by  leaving  St.  Raphael  by  way  of  the  newly 
opened  Boulevard  du  Touring  Club,  and  soon 
passes  two  great  projecting  rocks  known  as 
the  ' '  Lion  de  Terre  ' '  and  the  ' '  Lion  de  Mer. ' ' 
They  do  not  look  in  the  least  like  lions,  —  nat- 
ural curiosities  seldom  do  look  like  what  they 
are  named  for,  —  but  they  will  be  recognizable 
nevertheless.  Throughout  its  length  the  road 
follows  the  shore  so  closely  that  the  sea  is 
always  in  sight. 

Boulouris  is  a  sort  of  unlovely  but  pictur- 
esque suburb  of  St.  Raphael,  and  from  its  far- 
ther boundary  one  is  in  full  view  of  the  ' '  Sema- 
phore d'Agay,"  perched  high  on  a  promontory 
a  hundred  and  forty  metres  above  the  sea.  The 
Semaphore  is  an  ugly  but  utilitarian  thing,  and 


OO 
^r1 


to 

o 


Frejus  and  the  Corniche  d'Or      287 

the  wireless  telegraph  has  not  as  yet  supplanted 
its  functions  in  France. 

From  the  same  spot  one  sees  the  Tour  du 
Dramont,  a  one-time  refuge  of  Jeanne  de  Pro- 
vence during  a  revolution  among  her  sub- 
jects. 

In  following  the  road  one  does  not  come  to 
a  town  or  indeed  a  settlement  of  any  notable 
size  until  he  reaches  Agay,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  promontory.  The  town  lies  at  the  mouth 
of  a  tiny  river  bearing  the  same  name.  It 
makes  some  pretence  at  being  a  resort,  but  it 
is  still  a  diminutive  one,  and,  accordingly,  all 
the  more  attractive  to  the  world-wearied  trav- 
eller. 

Three  routes  lead  from  Agay,  one  to  Cannes 
by  Les  Trois  Termes  (twenty-nine  kilometres), 
another  by  the  Col  de  Belle  Barbe,  and  another 
directly  by  the  "  Corniche." 

Near  the  Col  de  Belle  Barbe  is  the  Oratoire 
de  St.  Honorat  and  the  Grotte  de  Ste.  Baume. 
The  latter  is  a  place  of  pilgrimage  for  the  de- 
vout of  the  region,  and  for  those  from  farther 
abroad,  but  most  of  the  time  it  is  a  mere  ren- 
dezvous for  curious  sightseers. 

The  roadway  continues  rising  and  falling 
through  the  pines  until  it  crosses  the  Col  Le- 
veque  (169  metres),  when,  rounding  the  Pic 


288  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

d'Aurele,  it  comes  again  to  sea-level  at  Le 
Trayas. 

From  Agay  the  "  Corniche  "  runs  also  by 
Le  Trayas,  and  to  roll  over  its  smoothly  made 
surface  in  a  swift-moving  automobile  is  the  very 
poetry  of  motion,  or  as  near  thereto  as  we  are 
likely  to  get  until  we  adopt  the  flying-machine 
for  regular  travel.  It  is  an  experience  that 
no  one  should  miss,  even  if  he  has  to  hire  a 
seat  on  the  automobile  omnibus  which  fre- 
quently runs  between  St.  Raphael  and  La  Na- 
poule  and  Cannes. 

It  is  twenty  kilometres  from  Agay  to  La 
Napoule,  and  is  a  good  afternoon's  journey  by 
carriage,  or  even  on  donkey-back.  Better  yet, 
one  should  walk,  if  he  feels  equal  to  it,  and 
has  the  time  at  his  disposal. 

En  route  one  passes  Antheore,  which  may 
best  be  described  as  a  colony  of  artistic  and 
literary  people  who  have  settled  here  for  the 
quiet  and  change  from  the  bustle  of  the  mod- 
ern life  of  the  towns.  This  was  the  case  at 
least  when  the  settlement  was  founded,  and 
the  poet  Brieux  built  himself  a  house  and  put 
up  over  the  gateway  the  significant  words: 
"  Je  suis  venu  ici  pour  etre  seul."  Whether 
he  was  able  to  carry  out  this  wish  is  best 
judged  by  the  fact  that  since  that  time  many 


Frejus  and  the  Corniche  d'Or     289 

outsiders  have  gained  a  foothold,  and  the  Grand 
Hotel  de  la  Corniche  d'Or  has  come  to  break 
the  solitude  with  balls  and  bridge  and  all  the 
distractions  of  the  more  celebrated  Riviera 
towns  and  cities. 

Between  Antheore  and  Le  Trayas  is  a  narrow 
pathway  which  mounts  to  St.  Barthelemy,  but 
the  coast  road  still  continues  its  delightful 
course  toward  La  Napoule. 

Le  Trayas,  though  it  figures  in  the  railway 
time-tables,  is  hardly  more  than  a  hamlet ;  but 
it  boasts  proudly  of  a  hotel  and  a  group  of 
villas.  It  has  not  yet  become  spoiled  in  spite 
of  this,  and  though  it  lacks  the  picturesque 
local  colour  of  the  average  Mediterranean 
coast  town,  and  almost  altogether  the  distrac- 
tions of  the  great  resorts,  it  is  worth  the  vis- 
iting, if  only  for  its  charming  situation. 

The  Departement  of  the  Var  joins  that  of  the 
Alpes-Maritimes  just  beyond,  and,  at  three 
kilometres  farther  on,  the  coast  road  rises  to 
its  greatest  height,  a  trifle  over  a  hundred 
metres. 

Before  one  comes  to  La  Napoule  he  passes 
the  progressive,  hard-pushing  little  resort  of 
Theoule,  so  altogether  delightful  from  every 
point  of  view  that  one  can  but  wish  that  winter 
tourists  had  never  heard  of  it.    This  was  not 


290  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

to  be,  however,  and  Theoule  is  doing  its  utmost 
to  become  both  a  winter  and  a  summer  resort, 
with  many  of  the  qualifications  of  both.  It  is 
deliciously  situated  on  the  Golfe  de  la  Napoule, 
or,  rather,  on  a  little  anse  or  bay  thereof,  and 
consists  of  perhaps  a  hundred  houses  of  all 
classes,  most  of  which  rejoice  in  the  name  of 
Villa  Something-or-other.  Most  of  these  villas 
are  well  hidden  by  the  trees,  and  their  coquette 
architecture  (on  the  order  of  a  Swiss  chalet, 
but  stuccoed  here  and  there  and  with  bits  of 
coloured  glass  stuck  into  the  gables,  —  and 
perhaps  a  plaster  cat  on  the  ridge-pole)  is  not 
so  obtrusive  as  it  might  otherwise  be. 

Leaving  Theoule,  the  coast  road  continues  to 
La  Napoule,  but,  properly  speaking,  the  "  Cor- 
niche  "  ends  at  Theoule.  Throughout  its  whole 
length  it  is  a  wonderfully  varied  and  attractive 
route  to  the  popular  Riviera  towns,  and  one 
could  hardly  do  better,  if  he  has  journeyed 
from  the  north  by  train,  than  to  leave  the  cars 
at  Frejus  or  St.  Raphael  and  make  the  journey 
eastward  via  the  Corniche  d'Or.  If  he  does 
this,  as  likely  as  not  he  will  find  some  delight- 
ful beauty-spot  which  will  appeal  to  him  as 
far  more  attractive  than  a  Cannes  or  Nice 
boarding-house,  where  the  gossip  is  the  same 


Frejus  and  the  Corniche  d'Or     291 

sort  of  thing  that  one  gets  in  Bloomsbury  or 
on  Beacon  Hill.  The  thing  is  decidedly  worth 
the  trying,  and  the  suggestion  is  here  given 
for  what  it  may  be  worth  to  the  reader. 


CHAPTER   Vn. 

LA   NAPOULE   AND   CANNES 

La  Napoule  is  known  chiefly  to  those  birds 
of  passage  who  annually  hibernate  at  Cannes 
as  the  end  of  a  six-mile  constitutional  which 
the  doctors  advise  their  patients  to  take  as  an 
antidote  to  overfeeding  and  "  tea-fights."  In 
reality  it  is  much  more  than  this;  it  is  one  of 
the  most  charmingly  situated  of  all  the  Riviera 
coast  towns,  and  has  a  history  which  dates 
back  to  a  fourteenth-century  fortress,  built  by 
the  Comte  de  Villeneuve,  a  tower  of  which 
stands  to-day  as  a  part  of  the  more  modern 
chateau  which  rises  back  of  the  town. 

French  residents  on  the  Riviera  have  a  pop- 
ular tradition  that  Lord  Brougham  originally 
made  overtures  to  the  municipality  of  Frejus 
when  he  was  seeking  to  found  an  English  col- 
ony on  the  Riviera.  Whatever  his  advances 
may  have  been,  they  were  promptly  spurned  by 
the  town,  and  England's  chancellor  forthwith 
turned  his  steps  toward  Italy,  whither  he  had 

292 


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La  Napoule  and  Cannes  293 

originally  been  bound.  Suddenly  he  came  upon 
the  ravishing  outlook  over  the  Golfe  de  la 
Napoule,  and  the  charms  of  this  lovely  spot 
so  impressed  him  that  he  fell  a  prey  to  their 
winsomeness  forthwith  and  decided  that  if  he 
could  find  a  place  where  the  inhabitants  were 
at  all  in  favour  of  a  peaceful  English  inva- 
sion, he  would  throw  the  weight  of  his  influ- 
ence in  their  favour.  He  travelled  the  country 
up  and  down  and  threaded  the  highways  and 
byways  for  a  distance  of  fifty  kilometres  in 
every  direction  until  finally  he  decided  that 
Cannes,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Golfe, 
should  have  his  approval.  Thus  the  Riviera, 
as  it  is  known  by  name  to  countless  thousands 
to-day,  was  born  as  a  popular  English  resort, 
and  soon  Cannes  became  the  "  ville  elegante," 
replacing  the  little  "  bourg  de  peche  "  of  a 
former  day. 

The  road  eastward  from  Frejus,  the  high- 
road which  leads  from  France  into  Italy, 
passes  to  the  northward  of  the  crests  of  the 
Esterel  range  just  at  the  base  of  Mont  Vi- 
naigre,  a  topographical  landmark  with  which 
the  average  visitor  to  Cannes  should  become 
better  acquainted.  It  is  far  more  severe  and 
less  gracious  than  Cap  Roux,  where  the  Este- 
rels  slope  down  to  the  Mediterranean;   but  it 


294  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

has  many  attractions  which  the  latter  lacks. 
From  the  summit  of  Mont  Vinaigre  one  may 
survey  all  this  remarkable  forest  and  moun- 
tain region,  while  from  Cap  Roux  one  has  as 
remarkable  a  panorama  of  sea  and  shore  and 
sky,  but  of  quite  a  different  tonal  composition. 

Mont  Vinaigre  is  the  culminating  peak  of  the 
Esterel,  and  is  visible  from  a  great  distance. 
Its  great  white  observatory  tower  rises  high 
above  the  neighbouring  peaks  and,  when  one 
finally  reaches  the  vantage-ground  of  the  little 
platform  which  is  found  at  the  utmost  height, 
he  obtains  a  view  which  is  far  more  vast  in 
effect  than  many  of  the  "  grandest  views  " 
scattered  here  and  there  about  the  world.  In 
clear  weather  the  outlook  extends  from  Bordi- 
ghera  to  Sainte  Baume,  as  if  the  whole  region 
were  spread  out  in  a  great  map. 

Below  Mont  Vinaigre  is  Les  Adrets  and  its 
inn,  which  in  days  of  old  was  known  by  all 
travellers  to  Italy  by  way  of  the  south  of 
France  as  a  post-house,  where  horses  were 
changed  and  where  one  could  get  refreshment 
and  rest.  To-day  the  Auberge  des  Adrets  per- 
forms much  the  same  functions  for  the  auto- 
mobilist,  and  is  put  down  in  the  automobile 
route-books  of  France  as  a  "poste  de  secours," 
one  of  those  safe  havens  on  land  which  are  as 


La  Napoule  and  Cannes  295 

necessary  to  the  autornobilist  en  tour  as  is  a 
life-saving  station  to  the  shipwrecked  sailor. 

The  inn,  modest  and  lacking  in  up-to-date 
appointments  as  it  is,  has  a  delightfully  wild 
and  unspoiled  situation,  sheltered  from  the 
north  by  numerous  chestnut  and  plane-trees, 
and  in  summer  or  winter  its  climatic  conditions 
are  as  likely  to  fit  the  varying  moods  of  the 
traveller  as  any  other  spot  on  the  Eiviera. 
Truly  Les  Adrets  is  a  retreat  far  from  the  mad- 
ding crowd,  where  an  author  or  an  artist  might 
produce  a  masterwork  if  what  he  needed  was 
only  quiet  and  a  change  of  scene.  There  are 
no  distractions  at  Les  Adrets  to  break  the  mo- 
notony of  its  existence.  One  may  chat  with  a 
passing  automobile  tourist,  or  with  one  of  those 
guardians  of  the  peace  of  the  countryside,  the 
gendarmes,  —  who  have  barracks  near  by,  — 
but  this  is  the  only  diversion. 

At  the  inn  itself  one  finds  nothing  of  luxury. 
One  pays  two  francs  for  his  repasts  and  a  franc 
for  his  modest  room.  This  is  not  dear,  and  has 
the  additional  advantage  that  neither  one  nor 
the  other  of  these  requirements  of  the  traveller 
have  the  least  resemblance  to  the  sort  of  thing 
that  one  gets  in  the  towns. 

Over  the  doorway  of  this  unassuming  estab- 
lishment one  reads  the  following:  "La  maison 


296  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

este  rebastie  par  le  Sieur  Laugier  en  1653;  elle 
a  ete  restaur xe  par  Ed.  J  our  dan,  1898." 

Never  is  there  a  throng  of  people  to  be  seen 
in  these  parts,  and,  if  one  wanders  abroad  at 
night,  he  is  likely  enough  to  have  thoughts  of 
the  highwaymen  of  other  days.  Formerly  the 
forests  and  mountains  of  the  Esterel  were  in- 
fested with  a  class  of  brigands  who  were  by 
no  means  of  the  polished  villain  order  which 
one  has  so  frequently  seen  upon  the  stage. 
They  were  not  of  the  Claude  Duval  class  of 
society,  but  something  very  akin  to  what  one 
pictures  as  the  Corsican  bandit  of  tradition. 

To-day,  however,  all  is  peaceful  enough,  with 
the  Gendarmerie  near  by,  a  terror  to  all  wrong- 
doers, and  the  only  reminiscences  which  one  is 
likely  to  have  of  the  highwaymen  of  other  days 
are  such  as  one  gets  from  an  old  mountaineer 
or  a  review  of  the  pages  of  history  and  romance, 
where  will  be  found  the  names  of  Robert  Ma- 
caire  and  Gaspard  de  Besse,  two  famous,  or 
infamous,  characters  whose  names  and  lives 
were  closely  connected  with  this  region.  It  is 
all  tranquil  enough  to-day,  and  one  is  no  more 
likely  to  meet  with  any  of  these  unworthies  in 
the  Esterel  than  he  is  with  the  "  Flying  Dutch- 
man "  at  sea. 

As  one  draws  near  to  Cannes,  he  realizes  that 


La  Napoule  and  Cannes  297 

he  has  left  the  simplicity  of  the  life  of  the  coun- 
tryside behind  him.  While  still  half  a  dozen 
kilometres  away,  he  sees  a  sign  reading 
"  Cannes  Cricket  Club,"  and  all  is  over!  No 
more  freedom  of  dress;  no  more  hatless  and 
collarless  mountain  climbs;  but  the  costume  of 
society,  of  London,  Paris,  or  New  York  is  what 
is  expected  of  one  at  all  times. 

Cannes  is  truly  "  aristocratic  villadom,"  or 
"  sejour  aristocratique  et  recherche,"  as  the 
French  have  it,  with  all  that  the  term  implies. 
Consequently  Cannes  is  conventional,  and  the 
real  lover  of  nature  —  regardless  of  the  town's 
charming  situation  —  will  have  none  of  it. 

It  is  believed  that  the  town  grew  up  from  the 
ancient  Ligurian  city  of  Aegytna,  destroyed  by 
Quintus  Opimius  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  be- 
fore the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era. 

If  one  does  not  make  his  entry  into  Cannes 
by  road,  direct  from  the  Esterel,  he  will  prob- 
ably come  by  the  way  of  Le  Cannet.  Le  Cannet 
is  itself  a  sumptuous  suburb  which  in  every 
way  foretells  the  luxury  which  awaits  one  in 
the  parent  city  by  the  seashore. 

Three  kilometres  of  palm  and  plantain  bor- 
dered avenue,  lined  with  villas  and  hotels,  joins 
Le  Cannet  with  Cannes.  Not  long  ago  the 
suburb  was  an  humble,  indifferent  village,  but 


298  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

the  tide  of  popularity  came  that  way,  and  it 
has  become  transformed. 

The  Boulevard  Carnot  descends  from  Le 
Cannet  to  the  sea  by  a  long  easy  slope,  and 
again  one  comes  to  the  blue  water  of  the  en- 
chanted Mediterranean.  At  times,  Cannes  is 
most  lively,  —  always  in  a  most  conventional 
and  eminently  respectable  fashion,  —  and  at 
other  times  it  sleeps  the  sleep  of  an  emptied 
city,  only  to  awake  when  the  first  fogs  of  No- 
vember descend  upon  "  brumeuse  Angleterre." 

To  tell  the  truth,  Cannes  is  far  more  delight- 
ful ' '  out  of  season, ' '  when  its  gay,  idling  popu- 
lation of  strangers  has  disappeared,  stolen  away 
to  the  watering-places  of  the  north,  there  to  live 
the  same  deadly  dull  existence,  made  up  of 
rounds  of  tea-drinking  and  croquet-playing, 
with  perhaps  an  occasional  ride  in  a  char-a- 
banc.  Probably  the  millionaire  improves  some- 
what upon  this  regime,  but  there  are  countless 
thousands  who  live  this  very  life  in  European 
watering-places  —  and  think  they  are  enjoying 
themselves. 

Cannes 's  off  season  is  of  course  summer,  but, 
considering  that  it  is  so  delightfully  and  salu- 
briously situated  at  the  water's  edge,  and  has 
a  summer  temperature  of  but  22°  Centigrade, 
this  is  difficult  to  understand.    Certainly  Cannes 


La  Napoule  and  Cannes  299 

is  more  delightful  in  the  winter  months  than 
"  brumeuse  Angleterre,"  but  then  it  is  equally 
so  in  June. 

Not  every  one  in  Cannes  speaks  English ;  but 
for  a  shopkeeper  to  prosper  to  the  full  he  should 
do  so,  and  so  the  local  "  professors  "  have  a 
busy  time  of  it,  in  season  and  out,  teaching  what 
they  call  the  "  idiome  britannique  "  and  the 
"  argot  Americaine." 

The  shore  east  and  west  of  the  centre  of  the 
town  is  flanked  with  hotels  and  villas,  and  great 
properties  are  yearly  being  cut  up  and  put 
into  the  hands  of  the  real- estate  agents  in  order 
that  more  of  the  same  sort  may  be  erected  where 
olive  and  palm  trees  formerly  grew. 

Horticulture  is  still  a  great  industry  at 
Cannes,  as  well  as  the  selling  of  building-lots, 
but  the  marvel  is  that  there  is  any  unoccupied 
land  upon  which  to  raise  anything.  A  dozen 
years  from  now  how  will  the  horticulturalists 
of  Cannes  be  able  to  grow  those  decorative  little 
orange  and  palm  trees  with  which  Paris  and 
Ostend  and  London  and  even  Manchester  hotel 
"  palm-gardens  "  are  embellished? 

Cannes  has  an  ecclesiastical  shrine  of  more 
than  ordinary  rank,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
it  is  of  no  great  architectural  splendour.  It 
is  the  old  Basilique  de  Notre  Dame  d'Esperance 


300  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

which  crowns  the  hill  back  of  the  town  and  pos- 
sesses a  remarkable  reliquary  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  said  to  contain  the  bones  of  St.  Ho- 
norat,  the  founder  of  the  famous  monastery  of 
the  Lerin  Isles. 

Another  monument  of  the  middle  ages  is  the 
ancient  "  Tour  Seigneuriale, ' '  erected  in  1080 
by  Adelbert  II.,  an  abbot  of  the  Monastery  of 
Lerins.  For  three  hundred  years  it  was  in  con- 
stant use,  serving  both  as  a  citadelle  and  as  a 
marine  observatory.  To-day  its  functions  are 
no  more;  but,  with  the  tower  of  the  church, 
it  does  form  a  sort  of  a  beacon,  from  offshore, 
for  the  Cannes  boatmen. 

There  is  a  Christmas  custom  celebrated  by 
the  fisher-folk  of  Cannes  which  is  exceedingly 
interesting  and  which  should  not  be  missed  if 
one  is  in  these  parts  at  the  time.  On  the  eve 
of  Christmas  there  is  held  a  popular  banquet, 
in  which  the  sole  dish  is  polenta,  most  wonder- 
fully made  of  peas,  nuts,  herbs,  and  meal,  to- 
gether with  boiled  codfish,  the  yolks  of  eggs, 
and  what  not,  all  perfumed  with  orange  essence. 
It's  a  most  temperate  sort  of  an  orgy,  in  all 
except  quantity,  and,  when  washed  down  with 
a  local  vin  blanc,  bears  the  name,  simply,  of  a 
"  gros  souper."  Brillat-Savarin  might  have 
done  things  differently,  but  the  dish  sounds  as 


La  Napoule  and  Cannes 


301 


though  it  might  taste  good  in  spite  of  the  mix- 
ture. 


At  Le  Cannet  is  the  Villa  Sardou,  where  the 
great  actress  Rachel  spent  the  last  days  of  her 
life  and  died  in  1858.     Near  Le  Cannet,  too, 


302  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

is  a  most  strangely  built  edifice  known  as 
the  "  Maison  du  Brigand."  It  is  the  chief 
sight  of  the  neighbourhood  for  the  curious  and 
speculative,  though  what  its  uncanny  design 
really  means  no  one  seems  to  know.  It  is  a 
spudgy,  square  tower  with  an  overhanging  roof 
of  tiles  and  four  queer  corbels  at  the  corners. 
The  entrance  doorway  is  three  metres,  at  least, 
from  the  ground,  and  leads  immediately  to  the 
second  story.  From  this  one  descends  to  the 
ground  floor,  not  by  a  stairway,  but  through  a 
trap-door.  This  curious  structure  is  supposed 
to  date  from  the  sixteenth  century. 

Vallauris  is  what  one  might  call  a  manufac- 
turing suburb  of  Cannes,  a  town  of  potteries 
and  potters.  The  potteries  of  the  Golfe  Jouan, 
of  which  Vallauris  is  the  headquarters,  are 
famous,  and  their  product  is  known  by  con- 
noisseurs the  world  over. 

One  notes  the  smoke  and  fumes  from  the 
furnaces  where  the  pottery  is  baked,  and  likens 
the  aspect  to  that  of  a  great  industrial  town, 
though  Vallauris  is,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  more 
daintily  environed  than  any  other  of  its  class 
in  the  known  world.  Not  all  of  its  six  thousand 
inhabitants  are  engaged  at  the  potteries;  but 
by  far  the  greater  portion  are ;  enough  to  make 
the  town  rank  as  a  city  of  workmen,  for  such 


La  Napoule  and  Cannes  303 


it  really  is,  though  it  would  take  but  little 
thought  or  care  to  make  of  it  the  ideal  "  gar- 
den city." 

Artist-travellers  have  long  remarked  the  qual- 
ities of  the  plastic  clay  found  here,  and  by  their 
suggestions  and  aid  have  enabled  the  manufac- 
turers to  develop  a  high  expression  of  the  artis- 
tic sense  among  their  workmen.  Most  of  these 
workers  are  engaged,  in  the  first  instance,  as 
mere  moulders  of  ordinary  pots  and  jugs ;  but, 
as  they  acquire  skill  and  the  art  sense,  they  are 
advanced  to  more  important  and  lucrative  posi- 
tions. 

The  establishment  of  Clement  Massier  is  fa- 
mous for  the  quality  and  excellent  design  of  its 
product.  The  proprietor  in  the  early  days,  by 
his  natural  taste  and  studies,  brought  his  work 
to  the  attention  of  such  masters  in  art  as  Ge- 
rome,  Cabanal,  Berne-Bellecour,  and  Puvis  de 
Chavannes,  all  of  whom  encouraged  him  to  de- 
velop his  abilities  still  further. 

Study  of  antique  forms  and  processes  threw 
a  new  light  upon  the  art,  or  at  least  a  newly 
reflected  light,  and  at  last  were  produced  those 
wonderful  iridescent  effects  and  enamels  which 
were  a  revelation  to  lovers  of  modern  pottery. 
Their  success  was  achieved  at  the  great  Paris 
Exposition  of  1889,  since  which  time  they  have 


304  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

been  the  vogue  among  the  "  clientele  elegant 
du  littoral,"  as  the  cicerone  who  takes  you  over 
the  Ceramic  Musee  tells  you. 

Vallauris  is  noted  also  for  its  production  of 
orange-water,  or,  rather,  orange-flower  water, 
with  which  the  French  flavour  all  kinds  of  subtle 
warm  drinks  of  which  they  are  so  fond.  The 
tisane  of  the  French  takes  the  place  of  the  tea 
of  the  English,  and  they  make  it  of  all  sorts 
of  things,  —  a  stewed  concoction  of  verbena 
leaves,  of  mint,  and  even  pounded  apricot 
stones,  —  and  always  with  a  dash  of  orange- 
flower  water.  It  is  not  an  unpleasant  drink  thus 
made,  but  wofully  insipid. 

The  orange-trees  of  the  neighbourhood  of 
Cannes  and  Vallauris  prosper  exceedingly, 
though  it  is  not  for  their  fruit  that  they  are 
so  carefully  tended.  It  is  the  blossoming  flowers 
that  are  in  demand,  partly  for  enhancing  the 
charms  of  brides,  but  more  particularly  for 
making  orange  essence.  There  are  numerous 
distilleries  devoted  to  this  at  Vallauris,  and, 
when  the  season  of  gathering  the  orange-flower 
crop  arrives,  a  couple  of  thousand  women  and 
children  engage  in  the  pleasant  task.  A  million 
kilogrammes  of  the  flower  are  gathered  in  a 
good  season,  from  which  is  produced  as  much 
as  seventy-five  thousand  kilos  of  essence. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

ANTIBES   AND   THE   GOLFE   JOUAN 

Beyond  Cannes,  on  the  eastern  shore  of  the 
Golfe  Jouan,  before  one  comes  to  the  penin- 
sula's neck,  is  a  newly  founded  station  known 
as  Jouan-les-Pins.  It  is  little  more  than  a  ham- 
let, though  there  are  villas  and  hotels  and  a 
water-front  with  wind-shelters  and  all  the  ap- 
pointments which  one  expects  to  find  in  such 
places. 

Jouan-les-Pins  really  is  a  delightful  place,  the 
rock-pines  coming  well  down  to  the  shore  and 
half-burying  themselves  in  the  yellow  sands. 
A  boulevard,  bordered  by  a  balustrade,  extends 
along  the  water's  edge  and  forms  that  blend  of 
artificiality  and  nature  which,  of  all  places 
on  the  Riviera,  is  seen  at  its  best  at  Monte 
Carlo. 

Undoubtedly  there  is  some  sort  of  a  great 
future  awaiting  Jouan-les-Pins,  for  it  is  al- 
ready regarded  as  a  suburb  of  Antibes,  and 
it  is  but  a  few  years  since  Antibes  itself  was 
but  a  narrow-alleyed,  high-walled  little  town, 

805 


306 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


reminiscent  of  the  mediaeval  fortress  that  it 
once  was.  To-day  the  bastions  of  Antibes  have 
nearly  disappeared  under  the  picks  of  the  in- 
dustrious workmen. 

The  chief  event  of  historic  moment  in  the 
vicinity  was  the  landing  of  Napoleon  here  on 


Jouan-les-Pins 


his  return  from  Elba,  on  March  1,  1815.  Every 
one  feared  the  time  when  the  ' '  Corsican  ogre  ' ' 
should  break  loose,  and  when  the  ambitious 
Napoleon  set  foot  upon  the  shores  of  the  Golfe 
Jouan,  there  was  no  doubt  but  that  his  sole 
object  was  to  regain  the  throne  which  he  had 
lost.  Provence,  Languedoc,  and  Dauphine  were 
supposed  to  be  faithful  to  the  reigning  Louis, 
hence   there  was  little  fear   that   Napoleon's 


Antibes  and  the  Golfe  Jouan      307 

march  would  extend  beyond  their  confines. 
How  well  the  emotions  of  a  people  were  to  be 
judged  in  those  days  is  best  recalled  by  the  fact 
that  it  was  but  a  mere  promenade  from  Jouan- 
les-Pins,  via  Grasse,  Gap,  and  Sisteron,  to 
Lyons.  The  opinions  of  the  advisers  of  Louis 
XVIII.  were  decidedly  wrong,  for,  while  the 
Provencaux  remained  faithful  to  the  Bourbon, 
the  mountaineers  of  Dauphine  were  only  too 
ready  and  willing  to  give  Napoleon  the  aid  he 
wished. 

In  the  early  ages  the  shores  of  the  Golfe 
Jouan  were  well  known  and  beloved  by  Phoe- 
nicians, Greeks,  Romans,  barbarians,  and 
Moors  alike.  The  name  Jouan,  which  comes 
down  from  the  Saracens,  has  by  some  geog- 
raphers been  changed  to  Juan.  Since,  however, 
the  old  Provencal  spelling  and  pronunciation 
was  Jouan  (ou  being  the  Provencal  accent  of 
the  French  u),  it  is  still  so  written  by  the  best 
authorities. 

Never  has  the  word  incomparable  been  more 
suitably  applied  than  to  the  Golfe  Jouan  and 
the  monuments  of  the  past  civilization  that 
surround  it.  Together  with  the  Golfe  de  la 
Napoule  it  forms  one  vast  expanse  of  bay,  the 
most  ample  and,  perhaps,  the  most  beautiful 
on  the  whole  Riviera.    To  the  south  is  the  open 


308  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

sea,  and  to  the  north  the  varied  background  of 
the  Alpes-Maritimes. 

Antibes  has  itself  much  charm  of  situation, 
though  it  is  mostly  known  to  English-speaking 
people  as  a  sort  of  rest-house  on  the  way  to 
the  more  gay  attractions  of  Monte  Carlo  and 
about  there. 

Antibes  is,  however,  of  great  antiquity,  hav- 
ing been  the  Antipolis  of  the  Romans.  It  has 
the  usual  attractions  of  the  Riviera  towns  and, 
in  addition,  the  proximity  of  the  great  penin- 
sula of  Antibes,  locally  called  the  Cap. 

This  peninsula  is  a  rare  combination  of  trees 
and  rocks  and  winding  roads,  almost  sur- 
rounded by  the  pulsing  Mediterranean,  always 
cool  and  comfortable,  even  in  summer,  and 
scarcely  ever  troubled  by  the  blowing  of  the 
mistral.  Villas,  almost  without  end,  occupy  the 
Cap,  tree-hidden,  and  all  brilliantly  stuccoed 
with  a  tint  which  so  well  harmonizes  with  the 
surrounding  subtropical  flora  that  the  effect 
is  as  of  fairy-land. 

The  Jardin  Thuret  is  a  great  botanical  col- 
lection, covering  an  area  of  over  seven  hec- 
tares, a  gift  to  the  nation  by  the  sister  of  the 
great  botanist  of  the  same  name.  The  Villa 
Eilen-Roc  has  also  wonderful  gardens,  laid  out 
with  exotic  plants,  and  open  to  visitors. 


Antibes  and  the  Golfe  Jouan      309 

Offshore,  to  the  westward,  are  the  lies  de 
Lerins  and  the  Golfe  de  la  Napoule,  while  east- 
ward lie  the  Baie  des  Anges  and  the  moun- 
tains back  of  Nice.  Northward  are  the  snow- 
clad  summits  of  the  Alpine  range,  while  to  the 
south  is  the  sea,  where  one  sees  the  filmy  smoke 
of  great  steamers  bound  for  Genoa  or  Mar- 
seilles, while  nearer  at  hand  are  the  white- 
winged  balancelles  and  tartanes.  Truly  it  is 
a  ravishing  picture  which  is  here  spread  out 
before  one,  and  therein  lies  the  great  charm 
of  Antibes. 

There  is  a  weird  combination  of  things  de- 
vout and  secular  at  Antibes,  —  Notre  Dame 
d 'Antibes,  with  its  hermitage;  the  lighthouse; 
and  the  semaphore.  Of  the  utility  of  the  two 
latter  there  can  be  no  doubt,  while  the  tiny 
chapel  of  the  hermitage  forms  a  link  which 
binds  the  sailor-folk  at  sea  with  their  friends 
on  shore.  It  is  a  sort  of  ex-voto  shrine,  like 
Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde  at  Marseilles,  where 
one  may  register  his  vows  upon  his  departure 
or  return  from  the  sea. 

When  the  river  Var  was  the  boundary  be- 
tween France  and  Piedmont,  this  Chapelle  de 
Notre  Dame  was  a  place  of  pilgrimage  for  the 
seafarers  on  both  sides  of  the  river,  and  pass- 
ports were  freely  given  to  permit  the  Italians 


310  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

to  worship  here  at  this  seaside  shrine  of  Our 
Lady. 

Antibes  has  much  of  historic  reminiscence 
about  it,  though  to-day  its  monuments  are 
neither  very  numerous  nor  magnificent. 

The  old  town  was,  for  military  reasons,  sur- 
rounded with  walls,  and  thus  the  sea  was  some 
distance  from  the  centre  of  the  town.  Then, 
as  to-day,  to  get  a  whiff  of  the  sea,  one  had  to 
leave  the  narrow  tortuous  picturesquenesss  of 
the  old  town  behind  and  saunter  on  the  quays 
of  the  little  port,  with  its  narrow  entrance  to 
the  open  sea. 

There  is  little  traffic  of  importance  going  on 
in  the  port  of  Antibes ;  mostly  the  shipping  of 
the  product  of  the  potteries  at  Vallauris  and 
neighbouring  towns.  Still,  by  no  means  is  it 
an  abandoned  port;  it  is  a  popular  haven  for 
Mediterranean  yachtsmen,  and  fishermen  find 
it  a  suitable  base  for  their  operations  in  the 
open  sea;  so  there  is  a  constant  going  and 
coming  such  as  gives  a  picturesque  liveliness 
which  is  lacking  at  a  mere  resort  or  watering- 
place.  Antibes  is,  moreover,  a  torpedo-boat 
station  of  the  French  navy,  being  safely  shel- 
tered by  a  line  of  rocks  which  parallel  the 
coast-line  for  some  distance  just  beyond  the 
harbour's  mouth,  and  which  are  marked  by  a 


Antibes  and  the  Golfe  Jouan      311 

great  iron  buoy,  known  locally  by  the  name  of 
"  Cinq  Cent  Francs." 

In  the  days  of  the  Romans  Antibes  was  prob- 
ably the  military  port  of  Cimiez,  and  in  a  later 
day  it  came  into  the  favour  of  both  Henri  IV. 
and  Richelieu  as  a  strongly  fortified  place. 
Later,  Vauban  came  on  the  scene  and  sur- 
rounded its  harbour  with  a  great  circular  mole 
with  considerable  architectural  pretensions. 
To-day  the  place  is  practically  ignored  as  a 
military  stronghold  in  favour  of  Villefranche 
and  Toulon  and  the  many  intermediate  batter- 
ies which  have  been  erected. 

The  origin  of  the  name  of  the  town  comes 
from  the  colony  of  Massaliotes  who  came  here 
in  the  fifth  century.  Its  modern  name  is  a  deri- 
vation from  its  earlier  nomenclature,  which  be- 
came successively  Antibon,  Antibolus,  and  then 
Antiboul, —  the  Provengal  name  for  the  An- 
tibes of  the  later  French. 

To-day  one  may  see  the  remains  of  two  an- 
cient towers  built  by  the  Romans,  and  there 
are  still  evidences  of  the  substructure  of  the 
antique  theatre,  built  into  the  lower  courses 
of  some  modern  houses.  In  the  walls  of 
the  Hotel  de  Ville  is  a  tablet  reading  as  fol- 
lows: 


312  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


D.     M. 
PVERI     SEPTENTRI 

ONI8   ANNORXI    QUI 
ANTIPOLI   IN    THEATRO 
BIDVO      SALTAVIT  ET      PLACVIT. 


According  to  Michelet  this  was  a  memorial  to 
"  the  child  Septentrion,  who,  at  the  age  of 
twelve  years,  appeared  two  days  at  the  theatre 
of  Antipolis;  doubtless  one  of  the  slaves  who 
were  let  out  to  managers  of  spectacles." 

Inland  from  Antibes,  on  the  banks  of  a  little 
streamlet,  the  Brague,  lies  Biot,  once  a  settle- 
ment of  the  Templars,  and  later,  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  a  possession  of  the  Genoese, 
or  at  least  peopled  by  a  colony  of  them. 

It  is  a  remarkable  little  place,  generally  over- 
looked by  travellers  in  the  rush  to  the  show- 
places  of  the  Biviera,  and  the  suggestion  is  here 
made  that  any  who  are  seeking  for  a  real  ex- 
otic could  not  do  better  than  hunt  it  here.  The 
manners  and  customs,  and  even  the  speech,  of 
many  of  the  old  people  of  the  town  are  as 
Italian  as  those  of  the  Genoese  themselves. 
The  tiny  bourg  possesses  a  series  of  arcades 
surrounding  a  tiny  square,  a  product  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  and  is  as  "  foreign  "  to 


Antibes  and  the  Golfe  Jouan      313 


these  parts  as  would  be  the  wigwam  of  an  In- 
dian. There  are  also  remains  of  the  old  ram- 
parts of  the  town  still  visible,  and  the  whole 


ensemble  is  as  a  page  torn  from  a  book  which 
had  been  closed  for  centuries. 

One  need  not  fear  undue  discomfort  here  in 
this  little  old-world  spot,  where  things  go  on 
much   the   same   as   they  have   for   centuries. 


314  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

There  is  nothing  of  the  allurements  of  the  great 
hotels  of  the  resorts  about  the  two  modest  inns 
at  Biot,  but  for  all  that  there  is  a  bountiful 
and  excellent  fare  to  be  had  amid  entirely 
charming  surroundings,  and,  if  one  is  minded, 
he  can  easily  put  in  a  month  at  the  retreat,  and 
only  descend  to  the  super-refinements  of 
Cannes  or  Nice  —  each  perhaps  a  dozen  miles 
away  —  whenever  he  feels  the  pangs  which 
prompt  him  to  get  in  touch  with  a  daily  paper 
and  the  delights  of  asphalt  pavements  and 
"  dressy  "  society. 

Not  all  Riviera  tourists  know  the  lies  de 
Lerins  as  well  as  they  might,  though  it  is  a 
popular  enough  excursion  from  Cannes. 

These  isles  give  the  distinct  note  which  lends 
charm  to  the  waters  of  the  Mediterranean  just 
offshore  from  Cannes,  forming,  as  they  do,  a 
sort  of  a  jetty,  or  breakwater,  between  the  Golfe 
de  la  Napoule  and  the  Golfe  Jouan. 

There  are  but  two  islands  in  the  group,  St. 
Honorat  and  Ste.  Marguerite,  the  latter  sep- 
arated from  the  Pointe  de  la  Croisette  at 
Cannes  by  a  little  over  a  kilometre.  It  costs 
a  franc  to  cover  this  by  boat,  and  another  franc 
to  pass  between  Ste.  Marguerite  and  St.  Ho- 
norat. 

The  He  Ste.  Marguerite  and  its  prison  are 


Antibes  and  the  Golfe  Jouan      315 

redolent  of  much  of  history,  from  the  days  of 
the  ' '  Iron  Mask  "  up  to  those  of  the  miserable 
Bazaine.  Much  has  been  hazarded  from  time 
to  time  as  to  the  real  identity  of  the  "  Man 
in  the  Iron  Mask,"  but  the  annals  of  Provence 
dealing  with  Ste.  Marguerite  seem  to  point  to 
the  fact  that  he  was  Count  Mattioli,  the  minis- 
ter of  the  Duke  of  Mantua,  who  had  agreed  to 
betray  his  master  into  the  hands  of  the  French, 
and  then  for  some  unaccountable  reason  —  no 
one  knows  why  —  repented,  with  the  result  that 
he  was  entrapped  and  thrown  into  prison.  One 
sees  still  the  walls  of  the  dungeon  where 
twenty-seven  years  of  his  unhappy  life  were 
spent. 

Bazaine,  the  unfortunate  Marechal  de  France 
who  capitulated  at  Metz  during  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war,  was  also  confined  here,  from 
December,  1873,  to  August,  1874,  when  by  some 
unexplained  means,  he  was  able  to  escape  to 
Italy. 

The  islands  take  their  collective  name  from 
the  memory  of  a  pirate  of  the  heroic  age,  Lero 
by  name,  to  whom  a  temple  was  erected  on  the 
larger  isle. 

The  He  St.  Honorat  has  perhaps  a  greater 
interest  than  that  of  Ste.  Marguerite.  St.  Ho- 
norat established  himself  here  in  retreat  in  the 


316  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

fifth  century,  and  his  abode  was  afterward  vis- 
ited by  Erin's  St.  Patrick. 

A  religious  foundation,  known  as  the  Mon- 
astery of  Lerins,  took  shape  here  in  the  sixth 
century,  and  became  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
in  all  Christendom. 

Barbarians,  fanatics,  and  pirates  attacked 
the  isle  from  time  to  time,  but  they  could  not 
disturb  the  faith  upon  which  the  religious  es- 
tablishment was  built,  and  it  was  only  in  1778, 
when  it  was  desecularized  by  the  Pope,  that  its 
influence  waned. 

In  1791,  Mile.  Alziary  de  Roquefort,  an  ac- 
tress of  fame  in  her  day,  acquired  the  isle  and 
made  it  her  residence.  To-day  it  is  in  the  pos- 
session of  a  community  of  Benedictines  of  Ci- 
teaux,  who  cultivate  a  great  portion  of  its  soil 
for  the  benefit  of  the  Bishop  of  Frejus. 

The  modern  conventual  buildings  are  on  the 
site  of  the  old  establishment,  now  completely 
disappeared,  but  the  community  is  well  worth 
the  visiting,  if  only  to  bring  away  with  one  a 
bottle  of  the  Liqueur  Lerina,  which,  in  the 
opinion  of  many,  is  the  equal  of  the  popular 
11  Benedictine  "  and  "  Chartreuse." 

There  is  a  fragment  of  the  old  fortress-cha- 
teau still  left  to  view,  bathing  the  foot  of  its 
crenelated  donjon  in  the  sea,  a  reminder  of  the 


Antibes  and  the  Golfe  Jouan       317 


days  when  the  monks  fought  valiantly  against 
pirate  invasion. 

Legend  accounts  for  the  names  borne  by  both 
the  lies  de  Lerins.  Two  orphans  of  high  de- 
gree, brother  and  sister,  left  their  home  in  the 


Vosges    and   came   to    Provence,   which   they 
adopted  as  their  future  home. 

Marguerite  took  up  her  residence  on  the  isle 
nearest  the  shore,  and  her  brother  on  the  far- 
thermost.   Disconsolate  at  being  left  alone,  the 


318  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

maid  supplicated  her  brother  to  come  to  her, 
and  this  he  promised  to  do  each  year  when 
the  cherry-trees  were  in  bloom.  Marguerite 
prayed  to  God  that  her  brother,  who  had  be- 
come a  religieux,  would  come  more  often;  at 
once  the  cherry-trees  about  her  habitation  burst 
into  bloom,  a  miracle  which  occurred  each 
month  thereafter,  and  her  brother,  true  to  his 
promise,  came  promptly  the  first  of  each  month, 
and  thus  broke  the  lonely  vigil  of  his  sister. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

GRASSE   AND   ITS   ENVIRONS 

According  to  the  French  geographers,  Grasse 
occupies  a  commanding  site  on  a  "  montagne 
a  pic,"  and  this  describes  its  situation  exactly. 

On  the  flanks  of  this  great  hill  sits  the  town, 
its  back  yards,  almost  without  exception,  set 
out  with  olive  and  orange  trees,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  more  extended  plantations  of  the  same 
sort  seen  as  one  reaches  the  outskirts. 

The  whole  note  of  Grasse  is  of  flowers,  trees, 
and  shrubs,  and  the  perfume-laden  air  an- 
nounces the  fact  from  afar. 

Above  rises  the  "  pic/'  and,  farther  away, 
the  northern  boundary  of  the  horizon  is  circum- 
scribed with  an  amphitheatre  of  wooded  moun- 
tains severe  and  imposing  in  outline. 

Grasse  is  but  a  short  eighteen  kilometres 
from  the  Mediterranean,  but  the  whole  topo- 
graphical aspect  of  the  country  has  changed. 
The  panorama  seaward  is  the  only  intimation 
of  the  characteristics  which  have  come  to  be 
recognized   as   the   special   belongings    of   the 

319 


320  Rambles  on  the  Eiviera 

French  Riviera.  The  foot-hills  slope  gently 
down  to  the  blue  "  nappe/'  which  is  the  only- 
word  which  describes  the  Mediterranean  when 
it  is  all  of  a  tranquil  blue.  It  is  an  incom- 
parable view  that  one  has  over  this  eighteen 
kilometres  of  country  southward,  and  a  strong 
contrast  to  the  lively  suburbs  of  the  coast 
towns.  Its  charm  and  beauty  are  all  its  own, 
and  there  is  little  of  the  modern  note  to  be 
heard  as  one  threads  the  highways  and  byways, 
through  the  valleys  and  down  the  ravines  to 
sea-level.  Without  doubt  it  was  a  fortunate 
choice  of  the  Romans  when  they  set  their  Cas- 
trum  Crassense  on  this  verdure-crowned  height. 

In  the  middle  ages  Grasse  developed  rapidly, 
and  became  the  seat  of  a  bishop  and  a  place 
dominant  in  the  commerce  of  the  region.  The 
inhabitants  were  reputed  to  be  possessed  of 
wonderful  energies,  and  the  fact  that  they  were 
twice  able  to  repel  the  Moorish  invaders, 
though  their  town  was  practically  destroyed, 
seems  to  prove  this  beyond  a  doubt. 

Richelieu  gave  the  bishopric  of  this  proud 
city  to  Antoine  Godeau,  who,  it  seems,  pos- 
sessed hardly  any  qualifications  for  the  post 
except  family  influence  and  the  flatteries  he 
had  showered  upon  the  cardinal.  Because  of 
his  small  stature  this  prelate  became  known  as 


Grasse  and  Its  Environs  321 

the  "  Nain  de  Julie,"  but  in  time  he  came  to 
develop  a  real  aptitude  for  his  calling,  and 
governed  his  diocese  with  care,  prudence,  and 
judgment,  and  became  an  Academicien  through 
having  written  a  history  of  the  Church  in 
France  during  the  eighteenth  century. 

The  ecclesiastical  monuments  of  Grasse  are 
not  many  or  as  beautiful  as  might  be  expected 
of  a  bishop's  seat,  and  at  the  Revolution  the 
see  was  suppressed.  The  old-time  cathedral, 
as  it  exists  to-day,  is  an  ungracious  thing,  with 
a  perron,  a  sort  of  horseshoe  staircase,  before 
it,  built  by  Vauban,  who,  judging  from  this 
work,  was  far  more  of  a  success  as  a  fortress- 
builder  than  as  a  designer  of  churches. 

Formerly  Grasse  was  the  seat  of  the  Pre- 
fecture of  the  Departement  du  Var,  but,  with 
the  inclusion  of  the  Comte  de  Nice  within  the 
limits  of  France,  the  honour  was  given  to  Dra- 
guignan,  while  that  of  the  newly  made  Departe- 
ment des  Alpes-Maritimes  was  given  to  Nice, 
and  Grasse  became  simply  a  sous-prefecture. 
Shorn  of  its  official  dignities,  and  never  having 
arisen  to  the  notoriety  of  being  a  fashionable 
resort,  Grasse  "  buckled  down  to  business,"  as 
one  might  say,  and  acquired  a  preeminence  in 
the  manufacture  of  perfumes,  candied  fruits, 
and    confitures    unequalled    elsewhere    in    the 


322  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

south  of  France.  The  manufacture  of  soaps, 
wax,  oil  products,  and  candles  also  form  a  con- 
siderable industry,  and  the  general  aspect  of 
Grasse  is  quite  as  prosperous,  indeed  more  so, 
than  if  it  were  dependent  on  the  butterfly  tour- 
ists of  the  coast  towns. 

The  streets  of  the  town  rise  and  fall  in  be- 
wildering fashion.  They  are  badly  laid  out, 
in  many  cases,  and  dark  and  gloomy,  but  they 
are  nevertheless  picturesque  to  a  high  degree; 
a  sort  of  neglige  picturesqueness,  which  does 
not  necessarily  mean  dirty  or  squalid.  There 
are  no  remarkable  architectural  splendours  in 
all  the  town,  and  there  are  none  of  those  ar- 
chaeological surprises  such  as  one  comes  upon 
at  Aix  or  Frejus. 

Grasse  has  a  fine  library,  containing  numer- 
ous rare  manuscripts  and  deeds  and  the  ar- 
chives of  the  ancient  Abbey  of  Lerins.  In  the 
Hopital  is  an  early  work  of  Eubens,  which 
ranks  as  one  of  the  world's*  great  art  treas- 
ures, and  there  is  a  further  interest  in  the  city 
for  art-lovers  from  the  fact  that  it  was  the 
birthplace  of  Fragonard,  to  whom  a  fine  bust 
in  marble  has  been  erected  in  the  Jardin  Pub- 
lique. 

As  before  mentioned,  the  height  above  is  the 
chief  point  of  interest  at  Grasse.    It  culminates 


Flower  Market,  Grass e 


Grasse  and  Its  Environs  323 

in  the  significantly  named  promenade  known 
as  the  "  Jeu  de  Ballon/'  A  sea  of  tree-tops 
surges  about  one  on  all  sides,  with  here  and 
there  a  glimpse  of  the  red  roof-tops  of  the 
town  below. 

Between  the  town  and  the  sea  is  an  immense 
rocky  wall  known  as  Les  Eibbes,  with  a  pic- 
turesque cascade  rippling  down  its  flank. 
From  its  apex  Napoleon,  escaping  from  Elba, 
arrested  his  flight  long  enough  to  turn  and  — 
in  the  words  of  his  best-known  historian  — 
"  contemplate  the  immense  panorama  which  un- 
rolled before  his  eyes,  and  salute  for  the  last 
time  the  Mediterranean  and  the  mountains  of 
La  Corse,  which  he  was  never  again  to  see." 

The  assertion  "  voir  La  Corse,"  in  the  orig- 
inal, was  not  a  figure  of  speech,  for  under  cer- 
tain conditions  of  wind  and  weather  the  same 
is  pdssible  to-day. 

A  half  a  dozen  kilometres  to  the  eastward 
of  Grasse  the  highroad  crosses  the  river  Loup, 
and  one  sees  a  semicircular  town  before  him 
known  as  Villeneuve-Loubet.  The  town  has 
hotels  and  all  the  faint  echoes  of  the  watering- 
places  of  the  coast.  This  is  a  pity,  for  it  is 
delightful,  or  was,  before  all  this  up-to-dateness 
came.     Its  chateau,   still  proudly  rearing  its 


324  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

head  above  the  town,  was  built  in  the  twelfth 
century  by  the  Comtes  de  Provence. 

The  primitive  town  was  called  Loubet,  a  cor- 
ruption of  the  name  of  the  river  which  bathes 
its  walls.  Before  even  the  days  of  the  occupa- 
tion of  the  Comtes  de  Provence,  as  early  as 
the  seventh  century,  there  was  a  monastery 
here  known  by  the  name  of  Notre  Dame  la 
Doree,  of  which  scanty  remains  are  visible  even 
to-day.  Owing  to  various  Mussulman  incur- 
sions, the  occupants  of  the  monastery  were 
forced  to  flee  to  the  protection  of  the  chateau, 
and  soon  the  "  Ville-neuve  "  was  created,  ulti- 
mately forming  the  hyphenated  name  by  which 
the  place  is  known  to-day. 

Still  onward,  on  the  road  to  Nice,  is  Cagnes, 
a  sort  of  economical  overflow  from  the  more 
aristocratic  resort,  with  few  advantages  to-day 
as  an  abiding-place,  and  most  of  the  disadvan- 
tages of  the  larger  city.  There  are  tooting 
trams,  automobile  garages,  and  shops  for  the 
sale  of  many  of  the  minor  wants  of  life,  which 
in  former  times  one  had  to  walk  the  ten  or  a 
dozen  kilometres  into  Nice  to  get.  The  auto- 
mobile is  a  very  good  thing  for  touring,  but, 
as  a  perambulator  in  which  to  "  run  down  to 
the  village,"  it  is  much  overrated  and  a  con- 
firmed nuisance  to  every  one ;  and  Cannes  suf- 


Grasse  and  Its  Environs  325 

fers  from  this  more  than  any  other  place  in 
France,  unless  it  be  Giverny  on  the  Seine,  the 
most  overautomobiled  town  in  the  world, — 
one  to  every  score  of  inhabitants. 

Once  Cagnes  bid  fair  to  become  an  artists' 
resort,  but  it  became  overrun  with  "  tea  and 
toast  "  tourists,  and  so  it  just  missed  becom- 
ing a  Pont  Aven  or  a  Barbizon.  For  all  that, 
it  is  a  picturesque  enough  place  to-day ;  indeed, 
it  is  delightful,  and  if  it  were  not  for  the  auto- 
mobiles everywhere  about,  and  that  awful  tram, 
it  would  be  even  more  so.  However,  its  little 
artists'  hotel  was,  and  is,  able  to  make  up  for 
a  good  deal  that  is  otherwise  lacking,  and  the 
sawmills,  brick-works,  and  distilleries  of  the 
neighbourhood  are  not  offensive  enough  to  take 
away  all  of  its  sylvan  charm. 

In  earlier  times  Cagnes  was  both  a  place  of 
military  importance  and  a  sort  of  a  city  of 
pleasure,  something  after  the  Pompeiian  order, 
one  fancies,  from  the  Eoman  remains  which 
have  been  found  here. 

There  is  an  ancient  chateau  of  the  Grimaldi 
family,  still  very  much  in  evidence,  though  it 
has  become  the  property  of  a  German.  In  many 
respects  it  is  a  beautiful  Renaissance  work  and 
is  accordingly  an  architectural  monument  of 
rank. 


326  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

Directly  inland  from  Cagnes  is  Vence,  an 
ancient  episcopal  city  which  was  shorn  of  its 
ecclesiastical  rights  at  the  Eevolution.  In 
spite  of  this  the  memories  and  the  very  sub- 
stantial reminders  of  other  days,  still  to  be 
seen  within  the  precincts  of  the  one-time  cathe- 
dral, give  it  rank  as  an  ecclesiastical  shrine 
quite  out  of  the  ordinary.  The  church  itself 
is  built  upon  the  site,  and  in  part  out  of,  an 
ancient  temple  to  Cybele,  and  the  fortifications, 
erected  when  the  Saracens  had  possession  of 
the  city,  are  still  readily  traced.  It  is  a  most 
picturesquely  disposed  little  city,  and  well 
worth  more  attention  than  is  generally  be- 
stowed upon  it. 

Between  Grasse  and  Nice  lies  the  valley  of 
the  Loup,  a  stream  of  some  sixty  kilometres 
in  length  emptying  into  the  Mediterranean, 
and  which  has  the  reputation  of  being  the  most 
torrential  waterway  in  France,  in  this  respect 
far  exceeding  the  more  important  streams, 
such  as  the  Ehone,  the  Durance,  and  the  Tou- 
loubre.  Its  course  is  so  sinuous,  as  it  comes 
down  from  its  source  in  the  Alpes-Maritimes, 
that  it  is  known  locally  as  "  le  serpent."  With 
all  violence  it  rolls  down  its  rapidly  sloping 
bed,  amid  rock-cut  gorges  and  wooded  ravines, 
in  quite  the  manner  of  the  scenic  waterfalls 


Grasse  and  Its  Environs  327 

of  the  geographies  that  one  scans  at  school. 
It  does  not  resemble  Niagara  in  any  manner, 
nor  is  it  a  slim,  narrow  cascade  at  any  point; 
but  throughout  its  whole  length  it  is  a  series 
of  tiny  waterfalls  which,  in  a  photograph,  do 
indeed  look  like  miniature  Niagaras.  All  along 
its  course  are  numerous  centres  of  population, 
though  none  of  them  reach  to  the  dignity  of 
a  town  and  hardly  that  of  a  village,  if  one  ex- 
cepts Le  Bar,  the  chief  point  of  departure  for 
excursions  in  the  gorges. 

Le  Bar  is  reminiscent  of  the  Saracens,  who 
were  for  long  masters  of  the  neighbouring 
country.  The  walls  of  the  houses  and  barriers 
are  of  that  warm,  rosy,  mud-baked  tint  that 
one  associates  mostly  with  the  Orient,  and  no 
artist's  palette  is  too  rich  in  colour  to  depict 
them  as  they  are.  The  Saracens  called  the 
place  "  Al-Bar,"  which  came  later,  by  an  easy 
process  of  evolution,  to  Albarnum,  and  finally 
Le  Bar. 

It  was  an  important  place  under  the  Roman 
domination,  and,  in  time,  when  the  town  came 
to  be  a  valued  possession  of  the  Comtes  de 
Provence,  the  cross  succeeded  the  crescent.  In 
the  tiny  church  of  the  town  there  is  a  remark- 
able ancient  painting  picturing  a  "  danse  ma- 
cabre," supposed  to  be  of  the  fifteenth  century. 


328 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


Above  Le  Bar  is  the  aerial  village  of  Gour- 
don,  fantastic  in  name,  situation,  and  all  its 
elements.    At  its  feet  rushes  the  restless  Loup, 


Gourtfon  *J 


Gourdon 


and  tears  its  way  through  one  of  those  curious 
rock-walls  which  one  only  sees  in  these  parts. 
To  the  westward  is  the  curious  and  imposing 


Grasse  and  Its  Environs  329 


outline  of  Grasse,  the  metropolis  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

Near  by  the  railway  crosses  the  ravine  on  an 
imposing  and  really  beautiful  modern  viaduct 
of  seven  arches,  each  twelve  metres  in  height 
—  nearly  forty  feet. 

Up  the  ravine  toward  the  source,  or  down- 
ward to  the  sea,  the  charms  multiply  themselves 
like  the  glasses  of  the  kaleidoscope  until  one, 
as  a  result  of  a  first  visit  to  this  much  neglected 
scenic  spectacle,  is  quite  of  the  mind  that  it 
resembles  nothing  so  much  as  a  miniature 
Yellowstone. 


CHAPTER   X. 

NICE   AND   CIMIEZ 

When  one  crosses  the  Var  he  crosses  the 
ancient  frontier  between  France  and  the  Comte 
de  Nice.  The  old-time  French  inhabitants  of 
the  Comte  ever  considered  it  an  alien  land,  and 
invariably  expressed  the  wish  to  be  buried  in 
the  Cemetery  of  St.  Laurent  du  Var,  just  over 
the  border  in  the  royal  domain. 

The  present  Pont  du  Var,  which  one  crosses 
as  he  comes  from  the  westward,  from  Cagnes 
or  Antibes,  is  the  successor  of  another  flung 
across  the  same  stream  by  Vauban,  much 
against  his  will,  it  would  seem,  for  he  said 
boldly  that  it  was  so  foolish  a  project  as  never 
to  be  worth  a  hundredth  part  of  its  cost.  How 
poorly  he  reckoned  can  be  judged  by  the  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  travellers  —  millions 
doubtless  —  who,  in  later  years,  have  made  use 
of  it.  He  evidently  did  not  foresee  the  tide  of 
tourist  travel,  whatever  may  have  been  his 
genius  as  a  military  engineer. 

The  Var  is  not  a  very  formidable-looking 

330 


Nice  and  Cimiez 


331 


w 

o 


332  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

river  at  first  glance,  and  has  not  the  tempestu- 
ous flood  of  the  Rhone  and  the  Durance  in 
actual  volume,  but  the  excess  of  water  which 
it  carries  to  the  sea,  at  certain  seasons,  is  pro- 
portionately very  much  greater.  The  Rhone 
increases  its  bulk  but  thirty  times,  the  Durance 
a  hundred  times,  but  the  Var  throws  into  the 
Mediterranean,  in  time  of  flood,  a  hundred  and 
forty  times  its  usual  flow,  a  fact  which  ranks 
it  as  one  of  the  most  fickle  waterways  of  Eu- 
rope, if  not  of  the  world. 

So  important  a  place  as  Nice  of  course  has 
a  legendary  account  of  the  origin  of  its  name. 
It  is  claimed  by  some  historians,  and  disputed 
by  others,  that  it  was  a  colony  founded  by  the 
Massaliotes  three  hundred  years  before  the 
beginning  of  the  Christian  era,  and,  in  conse- 
quence of  a  signal  success  against  the  Ligu- 
rians,  the  place  received  the  glorious  name  of 
Victory,  —  Niccea,  a  name  which  with  but  little 
alteration  has  come  down  to  to-day. 

Long  before  the  French  came  into  posses- 
sion of  the  Comte  de  Nice  and  its  capital  there 
was  a  friendship,  and  a  sort  of  union,  between 
the  two  peoples.  When  the  little  state  became 
a  part  of  modern  France,  it  became  simply 
more  French  than  it  was  before.  This  was  the 
only  change  to  be  remarked  until  the  era  of 


Nice  and  Cimiez  333 

its  great  prosperity  as  a  winter  resort,  for  the 
world's  idlers  made  it  what  it  is,  —  the  best- 
known  winter  station  in  all  the  world. 

Nice  used  to  be  called  ' '  Nizza  la  Bella, ' '  but, 
since  the  arrival  of  the  French  (1860),  and  the 
English,  and  the  Americans,  and  the  Germans 
(the  Russian  grand  dukes,  be  it  recalled,  have 
made  Cannes  their  own),  "  Nizza  la  Bella  "  has 
become  "  Nice  la  Belle,"  for  it  is  beautiful  in 
spite  of  its  drawbacks  for  the  lover  of  sylvan 
and  unartificial  charms. 

There  is  not  in  Africa  a  spot  more  African 
in  appearance  than  the  railway  station  at  Nice ; 
such  at  all  events  is  the  impression  that  it 
makes  upon  one  when  he  views  the  enormous 
palms  that  surround  the  station. 

Up  to  this  time  the  traveller  from  the  north, 
by  rail,  has  got  some  glimpses  of  the  southland 
from  the  windows  of  his  railway  car ;  has  seen 
some  palms,  perhaps,  and  other  specimens  of 
a  subtropical  flora;  but,  since  the  railway 
does  not  make  its  way  through  the  palm  ave- 
nues of  Hyeres  or  Cannes,  the  sudden  appari- 
tion of  Nice  is  as  of  something  new. 

Many  have  sung  the  praises  of  "  Nice  la 
Belle  "  in  prose  and  verse;  in  times  past,  Du- 
patay,  Lalande,  and  Delille;  and,  in  our  own 
day,  Alphonse  Karr,  Dumas  pere,  De  Banville, 


334 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


■Q.McM 


Nice  and  Cimiez  335 

Mistral,  Jacques  Normand,  Bourget,  Nadaud, 
and  a  host  of  others  too  numerous  to  mention. 

Nice  is  a  marvellous  blend  of  the  old  and  the 
new ;  the  old  quarter  of  the  Nicois,  with  narrow 
streets  of  stairs,  overhanging  balconies,  and  all 
the  accessories  of  the  life  of  the  Latins  as  they 
have  been  pictured  for  ages  past;  the  new, 
with  broad  boulevards,  straight  tree-bordered 
avenues  flanked  with  gay  shops,  hotels,  ki- 
osks, automobile  cabs,  and  all  the  rest  of 
what  we  have  come  unwisely  to  regard  as  the 
necessities  of  the  age.  The  curtain  of  trees 
flanking  these  great  modern  thoroughfares  is 
the  only  thing  that  saves  them  from  becoming 
monotonous ;  as  it  is,  they  are  as  attractive  as 
any  of  their  kind  in  Paris,  Lyons,  or  Marseilles. 

The  Promenade  des  Anglais  is  the  finest  of 
these  thoroughfares.  With  its  yuccas,  and  its 
garden,  and  its  sea-wall,  and  its  fringe  of  white- 
crested,  lapping  waves,  it  is  all  very  entranc- 
ing, —  all  except  the  inartistic  thing  of  glass 
roofs  and  iron  struts,  known  the  world  over 
as  a  pier,  and  which,  in  spite  of  its  utility,  — 
if  it  really  is  useful,  —  is  an  abomination.  Ar- 
tificiality is  all  very  well  in  its  place,  but  out 
of  place  it  is  as  indigestible  as  the  nougat  of 
Montelimar. 

The  Nice  of  to-day  bears  little  resemblance 


336  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

to  the  Nice  of  half  a  century  ago,  as  one  learns 
from  recorded  history  and  a  gossip  with  an 
old  inhabitant.  Then  it  was  simply  a  collec- 
tion of  maisons  groupees,  with  narrow,  crooked 
streets  between,  huddled  around  the  flanks  of 
the  old  chateau. 

In  those  days  the  railway  ended  at  Genoa 
on  the  east  and  at  Toulon  on  the  west,  and  the 
space  between  was  only  covered  by  diligence, 
horse  or  donkey  back,  or  by  boat.  The  "  high 
life,"  as  the  French  have  come  themselves  to 
term  listlessness  and  indolence,  had  not  yet  ar- 
rived, in  spite  of  the  fact  that  its  outpost  had 
already  been  planted  at  Cannes  by  England's 
chancellor. 

Those  were  parlous  times  for  Monte  Carlo. 
There  was  but  one  table  for  "  trente  et  qua- 
rante  "  and  one  for  "  roulette/'  and  the  open- 
ing of  the  game  waited  upon  the  arrival  of  a 
score  of  persons  who  came  from  Nice  daily  by 
voiture  publique,  via  La  Turbie,  or  by  the 
cranky  little  steamer  which  took  an  hour  and 
forty  minutes  in  good  weather,  and  which  in 
bad  did  not  start  out  at  all.  On  these  occasions 
there  was  little  or  nothing  "  doing  "  at  Monte 
Carlo,  but  the  new  regime  saw  to  it  that  trans- 
portation facilities  were  increased  and  im- 
proved, and  immediately  everything  prospered. 


Nice  and  Cimiez  337 

However  much  one  may  deplore  the  advent 
of  the  railway  along  picturesque  travel  routes, 
and  it  certainly  does  detract  not  a  little  from 
several  charming  Riviera  panoramas,  there  is 
no  question  but  that  it  is  a  necessary  evil.  Per- 
haps after  all  it  isn't  an  evil,  for  one  can  be 
very  comfortable  in  any  of  the  great  and  luxuri- 
ous expresses  which  deposit  their  hordes  all 
along  the  Riviera  during  the  winter  season. 
The  new  thirteen-hour  train  from  Paris,  the 
"Cote  d'Azur  Rapide,"  has  already  become 
one  of  the  world's  wonders  for  speed,  taking 
less  than  three-quarters  of  an  hour  in  making 
the  nine  stops  between  Paris  and  Nice.  Then 
there  are  the  "  London-Riviera  Express,"  the 
"  Vienne-Cannes  Express,"  the  "  Calais-Nice 
Express,"  and  the  Nord-Sud-Brenner  (Cannes, 
Nice,  Vintimille  to  Berlin),  with  sleeping-cars 
and  dining-cars,  but  not  yet  with  bathrooms, 
barber-shops,  or  stenographers  and  typewrit- 
ers, which  have  already  arrived  in  America, 
where  business  is  combined  with  the  joy  of 
living. 

From  the  very  fact  of  its  past  history  and 
of  its  geographical  location,  Nice  is  the  most 
cosmopolitan  of  all  the  cities  of  the  Riviera, 
if  we  except  Monte  Carlo. 

To  the  stranger,  English,  French,  and  Ital- 


338  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

ians  seem  to  be  about  on  a  par  at  Nice,  with 
a  liberal  addition  of  Germans  and  Russians, 
though  naturally  French  are  really  in  the  ma- 
jority. There  are  many  Italian-speaking  peo- 
ple in  the  old  town  of  Nice,  away  from  the 
frankly  tourist  quarters,  but  it  is  a  strange 
Italian  that  one  hears,  and  in  many  cases  is 
not  Italian  at  all,  but  the  Nicois  patois,  which 
sounds  quite  as  much  like  the  real  Provencal 
tongue  as  it  does  Italian,  though  in  reality  it  is 
not  a  very  near  approach  to  either. 

Nice  is  the  true  centre  of  the  catalogued 
beauties  of  the  Riviera,  and  in  consequence  it 
has  become  the  truly  popular  resort  of  the  re- 
gion. In  spite  of  this  it  is  not  the  most  lovable, 
for  garish  hotels,  —  no  matter  how  fine  their 
"  rosbif  "  may  be,  —  chalets  coquets,  and  sky- 
scraping  apartment  houses  have  a  way  of  in- 
truding themselves  on  one's  view  in  a  most 
distressing  manner  until  one  is  well  out  into 
the  foot-hills  of  the  Alpes-Maritimes  and  away 
from  the  tooting,  humming  electric  trams. 

The  port  of  Nice  is  not  a  great  one,  as  those 
of  the  maritime  world  go,  but  it  is  sufficient 
to  the  needs  of  the  city,  and  there  is  a  consid- 
erable coastwise  traffic  going  on.  The  basin 
is  purely  artificial  and  was  cut  practically  from 
the  solid  rock.     With  its  sheltering  mountain 


/*4 


-■- 


V.o- 


>" 


V 


Nice 


Nice  and  Cimiez  339 

background  it  is  exceedingly  picturesque  and 
well  disposed.  The  tiny  river  Paillon  runs  into 
it  from  the  north,  a  rivulet  which  in  its  own 
small  way  apes  the  torrents  of  the  Var  in  times 
of  flood.  At  other  seasons  it  runs  drily  through 
the  town  and  bares  its  pebbles  to  the  blazing 
southern  sun.  It  serves  its  purpose  well 
though,  in  that  its  thin  stream  of  water  forms 
the  washing-place  of  the  washerwomen  of  Nice, 
and,  from  their  numbers,  one  might  think  of 
the  whole  Eiviera.  The  process  of  pounding 
and  strangling  one's  linen  into  a  semblance  of 
whiteness  does  not  differ  greatly  here  from 
that  of  other  parts  of  France.  There  are  the 
same  energetic  swoops  of  the  paddle,  the 
thrashings  on  a  flat  stone,  the  swishings  and 
swashings  in  the  running  water  of  the  stream, 
and  finally  the  spreading  on  the  ground  to  dry. 
Here,  though,  the  linen  is  spread  on  the  smooth, 
clean  pebbles  of  the  river-bed  and  the  southern 
sun  speedily  dries  it  to  a  stiffness  (and  yellow- 
ness) which  grass-spread  linen  does  not  ac- 
quire. In  other  respects  the  washing  process 
seems  quite  as  efficacious  as  elsewhere,  and 
there  are  quite  as  many  small  round  holes  (in 
the  most  impossible  places),  which  will  give 
one  hours  of  speculation  as  to  how  they  were 
made.    It's  all  very  simple,  when  you  come  to 


340  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

think  of  it.  Things  are  simply  rolled  or  twisted 
into  a  wad  and  pounded  on  the  flat  stone. 
Where  nothing  but  linen  intervenes  between 
the  paddle  and  the  stone,  a  certain  flatness  is 
produced  in  the  mass,  and  the  dirt  meanwhile 
is  supposed  to  have  sifted,  or  to  have  been 
driven,  through  and  out.  Where  there  are  but- 
tons —  well,  that  is  where  the  little  round  holes 
come  from,  and  meanwhile  the  buttons  have 
been  broken  and  have  disappeared.  The  proc- 
ess has  its  disadvantages  —  decidedly. 

The  old  chateau  of  Nice  and  its  immediate 
confines  sound  the  most  dominant  old-time  note 
of  the  entire  city,  for,  in  spite  of  the  old  streets 
and  houses  of  the  older  part  of  the  city,  the 
quarters  of  the  Nicois  and  the  Italians,  there 
is  over  all  a  certain  reflex  of  the  modernity 
which  radiates  from  the  great  hotels,  cafes, 
and  shops  of  the  newer  boulevards  and  avenues. 

To  be  sure,  the  "  chateau,"  so  called  to-day, 
is  no  chateau  at  all,  and  is  in  fact  nothing  more 
than  a  sort  of  garden,  or  park,  wherein  are 
some  scanty  remains  of  the  chateau  which  ex- 
isted in  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  The  hill  on 
which  it  sat  is  still  the  dominant  feature  of  the 
place,  although,  according  to  the  exaggerated 
draughtsmanship  of  the  sixteenth  and  seven- 
teenth centuries,  the  chateau  and  its  dependen- 


Nice  and  Cimiez  341 


cies  must  have  been  a  marvellous  array  of 
spectacular  architecture.  The  summit  of  this 
eminence,  hanging  high  above  the  port  on  one 
side  and  the  Quai  du  Midi  and  the  valley  of 
the  Paillon  on  the  other,  is  reached  by  a(  wind- 
ing road,  doubling  back  and  forth  up  its  flank, 
but  the  only  thing  that  would  prompt  one  to 
make  the  ascent  would  be  the  exercise  or  the 
altogether  surprising  view  which  one  has  of  the 
city  and  its  immediate  surroundings. 

The  sea  mirrors  the  sails  of  the  shipping 
(mostly  to-day  it  is  funnels  and  masts,  how- 
ever) and  the  distant  promontories  of  Cap 
d'Antibes  on  the  one  side  and  Cap  Ferrat 
on  the  other.  Beyond  the  former  the  sun 
sets  gloriously  at  night,  amidst  a  ravishing 
burst  of  red,  gold,  and  purple,  quite  unequalled 
elsewhere  along  the  Eiviera.  Of  course  it  is 
as  glorious  elsewhere,  but  the  combination  of 
scenic  effects  is  not  quite  the  same,  and  here,  at 
least,  Nice  leads  all  the  other  Riviera  tourist 
points. 

To  the  north  are  the  lacelike  snowy  peaks 
of  the  Alps,  cutting  the  horizon  with  that  far- 
away brilliance  and  crispness  which  only  a 
snow-capped  mountain  possesses.  The  con- 
trast is  to  be  remarked  in  other  lands  quite 
as  emphatically,  at  Riverside,  in  California,  for 


342  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

instance,  where  you  may  have  orange-blossoms 
one  hour  and  deep  snow  in  the  next,  if  you  will 
only  climb  the  mountain  to  get  it;  but  there 
is  a  historic  atmosphere  and  local  colour  here 
on  the  Riviera  whose  places  are  not  adequately 
filled  by  anything  which  ever  existed  in  Cali- 
fornia. 

Nice  is  surrounded  by  a  triple  defence  of 
mountains  which,  supporting  one  another,  have 
all  but  closed  the  route  to  Italy  from  the  north. 
This  mountain  barrier  serves  another  purpose, 
and  that  is  as  a  sort  of  shelter  from  the  rigours 
of  the  Alps  in  winter.  The  wind-shield  is  not 
wholly  effectual,  for  there  is  one  break  through 
which  it  howls  in  most  distressing  fashion  most 
of  the  time.  This  is  at  the  extremity  of  the 
port,  where  the  wall  is  broken  between  the  hill 
of  the  chateau  and  Mont  Boron.  Formerly  this 
gap  bore  the  old  Provencal  nomenclature  of 
"  Raoabo  Capeou,"  which,  literally  translated, 
may  be  called  the  "  hat-lifter,"  and  which  the 
French  themselves  call  "  Derobe  Chapeau." 

Above  all,  one  should  see  Nice  in  the  height 
of  the  flower  season,  when  the  stalls  of  the 
flower  merchants  are  literally  buried  under  a 
harvest  of  flowers  and  perfumed  fruits. 

Nice's  distractions  are  too  numerous  to  be 
mentioned  in  detail.    The  Mi-Careme  and  Mardi 


Nice  and  Cimiez  343 

Gras  festivals  are  nowhere  on  the  Riviera  more 
brilliant  than  here,  and  now  that  in  these  pro- 
gressive days  they  have  added  "  Batailles  de 
Fleurs  "  and  "  Courses  d' Automobiles,"  and 
"  Horse-Races  "  and  "Tennis"  and  "Golf 
Tournaments,"  the  significance  of  the  merry- 
making is  quite  different  from  the  original  in- 
terpretation given  it  by  the  Latins.  Sooner  or 
later  "  Baseball  "  and  "  Shoe-blacking  Con- 
tests "  may  be  expected  to  be  introduced,  and 
then  what  will  be  one 's  recollections  of  ' '  Nizza 
la  Bella?  " 

The  business  of  Nice  consists  almost  entirely 
of  the  catering  to  her  almost  inexhaustible 
stream  of  winter  visitors.  This,  and  the  traffic 
in  garden  vegetables  and  fruits,  a  trade  of 
some  proportions  in  olive-oil,  and  the  manufac- 
ture and  sale  of  crystallized  fruit,  make  up  the 
chief  industrial  life  of  the  town. 

One  other  industry  may  be  mentioned,  though 
it  is  of  little  real  worth,  in  spite  of  the  business 
having  reached  large  figures,  —  the  trade  in 
olive-wood  souvenirs.  Every  one  knows  the 
sort  of  thing:  penholders,  napkin-rings,  and 
card-cases.  They  are  found  at  resorts  all  over 
the  world,  and  the  manufacturers  of  Nice  have 
spread  their  product,  throughout  Europe,  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  the  tourists  who  like  to  buy 


344  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

such  "  souvenirs,"  whether  they  are  at  Brigh- 
ton, Mont  St.  Michel,  or  Vichy. 

The  region  between  Nice  and  Menton  seems 
particularly  favourable  to  the  growth  of  a  much 
grander  species  of  olive-tree  than  is  to  be  seen 
in  the  other  departements  of  the  south,  and  the 
olive-oil  of  Nice,  because  of  its  peculiar  per- 
fume, is  greatly  in  demand  among  those  who 
think  they  have  an  exquisite  taste  in  this  sort 
of  thing.  As  most  of  this  aromatic  oil  is  ex- 
ported, the  statement  need  be  no  reflection  on 
the  product  of  other  parts.  One  hundred  es-. 
tablishments,  of  all  ranks,  are  engaged  in  this 
traffic  at  Nice. 

The  horticultural  trade  plays  its  part,  and 
the  roses  and  violets  of  Nice  are  found  through- 
out the  flower-markets  of  Europe.  There  are 
three  great  rose-growing  centres  in  western 
Europe,  Lyons,  Paris,  and  Ghent  (Belgium), 
and  mostly  their  flowers  are  grown  from  plants 
obtained  at  Nice. 

The  cut-flower  traffic  is  also  considerable  lo- 
cally, and  Nice,  Beaulieu,  Monaco,  and  Monte 
Carlo  are  themselves  large  consumers. 

Four  kilometres  only  separate  Nice  from 
Cimiez,  the  latter  comparatively  as  flourishing 
and  important  a  town  in  the  days  of  the  Ro- 
mans as  Nice  is  to-day. 


Olive  Pickers  in  the  Var 


Nice  and  Cimiez 


345 


For  long  it  played  a  preeminent  role  in  the 
history  of  these  parts.  To-day  one  makes  his 
way  by  one  of  the  ever-pushing  electric  trams 
which,  in  France,  are  threading  every  suburban 


byway  in  the  vicinities  of  the  cities  and  large 
towns.  In  other  days  this  was  the  ancient 
Eoman  way  which  bound  Cimiez  and  Vence, 
the  Via  Augusta,  the  most  ancient  communi- 
cation between  Italy  and  Gaul.     Evidences  of 


346  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

its  old  foundations  are  not  deeply  hidden,  and 
this  stretch  of  roadway  must  ever  remain  one 
of  the  most  vivid  examples  of  the  utilitarian 
industry  of  the  colonizing  Romans  in  Gaul. 

At  Cimiez  there  are  many  evidences  of  the 
old  Roman  builders  and  their  unequalled  art, 
fragments  of  temples,  aqueducts,  baths,  and 
amphitheatres.  Everything  is  very  fragmen- 
tary, often  but  a  bit  of  a  column,  a  sculptured 
leg  or  arm,  or  a  morsel  of  a  plate;  but  there 
is  everything  to  prove  that  Cimiez  was  a  most 
important  place  in  its  time.  The  most  notable 
of  these  ruins  is  the  amphitheatre,  built  after 
the  conventional  manner  of  theatre-building  in- 
vented by  the  Greeks  before  the  Romans,  and 
which  has,  in  truth,  not  been  greatly  changed 
up  to  to-day,  except  that  it  has  been  roofed 
over.  The  theatre  at  Cimiez  in  no  way  sug- 
gests those  other  Provengal  examples  at  Orange 
or  Aries,  the  peers  of  their  class  in  western 
Europe,  and  the  stone-cutting  was  of  a  very 
rude  quality  or  has  greatly  crumbled  in  the 
ages.  Such  of  the  walls  and  arches  as  are  vis- 
ible to-day  show  a  hardiness  and  correctness 
of  design  which,  however,  is  not  lived  up  to 
in  the  evidences  of  actual  workmanship. 

There  are  no  grandiose  structures  anywhere 


Nice  and  Cimiez  347 

in  the  vicinity ;  everything  is  fragmentary,  but 
Cimiez  was  evidently  an  important  city  in  em- 
bryo, which  some  untoward  influence  prevented 
ever  coming  to  its  full-blown  glory. 


CHAPTER   XL 

VILLEFRANCHE   AND   THE   FORTIFICATIONS 

Nice  in  many  respects  is  the  centre  from 
which  radiates  all  the  life  of  the  Riviera ;  more- 
over its  military  and  strategic  importance  at- 
tains the  same  distinction ;  it  is  the  base  of  the 
whole  system,  social  and  political. 

East  and  west  the  "  Cote  d'Azur  "  extends 
until  it  runs  against  the  grime  and  commercial 
activity  of  Marseilles  on  the  one  side,  and 
Genoa  on  the  other. 

From  the  heights  back  of  Nice  one  sees  the 
Ligurian  coast  stretch  away  to  infinity,  with 
the  sea  and  the  distant  isles  to  the  right,  while 
to  the  left  are  the  peaks  of  the  Maritime  Alps. 

On  this  pied  de  terre  France  has  organized  a 
great  series  of  defences  by  land  and  sea.  On 
every  height  is  a  fort  or  a  battery,  like  the 
castle-crowned  crags  of  the  Rhine.  The  bays 
and  harbours  below  the  foot-hills  are  all  de- 
fended from  the  menaces  of  a  real  or  imaginary 
foe  by  a  guardian  fringe  of  batteries  and  de- 
fences of  all  ranks,  and,  what  with  battle-ships 

348 


Villefranche  and  the  Fortifications  349 

and  torpedo-boats,  and  destroyers  and  sub- 
marines, this  frontier  strip  is  in  no  more  dan- 
ger of  sudden  attack  by  an  unfriendly  power 
than  are  the  interior  provinces  of  Berry  and 
Burgundy. 

The  entire  country  around  Nice  is  one  vast 
entrenched  camp,  constructed,  equipped,  and 
maintained,  as  may  be  supposed,  with  consid- 
erable difficulty  and  at  enormous  expense.  A 
mountain  fortress  whose  very  stones,  to  say 
nothing  of  other  materials,  are  transported  up 
a  trailless  mountainside,  is  one  of  the  wonder- 
works of  man,  and  here  there  is  a  long  line  of 
such,  encircling  the  whole  region  from  the  Ital- 
ian frontier  westward  to  Toulon. 

Above  all,  the  fortifications  are  concentrated 
in  the  country  just  back  of  the  capital  of  the 
Riviera.  All  the  great  hillsides,  rocky,  moss- 
grown,  or  covered  with  pines  or  olive-trees,  are 
a  network  of  forts  and  batteries,  strategic 
roads,  reservoirs  of  water,  and  magazines  of 
shot  and  shell. 

One  of  the  strongest  of  these  forts  is  on  the 
flanks  of  Mont  Boron;  Cap  Ferrat  holds  an- 
other, and  the  "  Route  de  la  Corniche,"  the 
only  low-level  line  of  communication  between 
France  and  Italy,  literally  bristles  with  the 
same  sort  of  thing. 


350  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

Fort  de  la  Drette,  five  hundred  metres  in 
altitude,  rises  above  that  astonishing  Saracen 
village  of  Eze,  while  a  strategic  route  leads  to 
another  at  Feuillerins,  six  hundred  and  forty- 
eight  metres  high,  and  thence  to  Fort  de  la 
Revere  at  seven  hundred  and  three  metres,  an 
impregnable  series  of  fortifications,  one  would 
think. 

Between  the  battery-crowned  heights  are  the 
reservoirs  and  magazines  of  powder,  all  in  full 
view  of  the  automobile  and  coach  tourists  from 
Nice  to  Monte  Carlo.  The  route  skirts  La 
Revere  and  the  great  towering  rock  back  of 
Monte  Carlo,  known  as  the  "  Tete  de  Chien," 
and  the  tourist  may  readily  enough  judge  for 
himself  as  to  the  utility  and  efficacy  of  these 
distinctly  modern  defences. 

The  crowning  glory,  however,  is  on  Mont 
Agel,  the  culminating  peak  in  the  vicinity  of 
Nice.  It  is  situated  at  a  height  of  eleven  hun- 
dred and  forty-nine  metres,  and  it  would  take 
a  long  siege  indeed  to  capture  this  fortress, 
if  things  ever  came  to  an  issue  in  its  neighbour- 
hood. 

Of  all  the  wonderful  examples  of  road-mak- 
ing in  France,  and  they  are  more  numerous  and 
excellent  than  elsewhere,  the  "  Route  de  la 
Grande  Corniche  "  is  the  best  known,  covering 


Villefranche  and  the  Fortifications  351 

as  it  does  a  matter  of  nearly  fifty  kilometres 
from  Nice  to  Vintimille. 

Personally  conducted  tourists  make  the  trip 
in  brakes  and  char-a-bancs  via  Mont  Gros  and 
its  observatory,  the  Col  des  Quatre  Chemins, 
by  Eze  perched  on  its  pyramidal  rock,  and  La 
Turbie  with  its  memories  of  Augustus,  until 
they  descend,  either  via  Roquebrune  to  Menton, 
or  by  the  steeps  of  La  Turbie  to  Monte  Carlo 
and  its  "distractions  de  haut  gout." 

It  is  all  very  wonderful  and,  to  the  traveller 
who  makes  the  trip  for  the  first  time  or  the 
hundredth,  the  beauties  of  the  panorama  which 
unfolds  at  every  white  kilometre  stone  is  so 
totally  different  from  that  which  he  has  just 
passed  that  he  wonders  if  he  is  not  journey- 
ing on  some  sort  of  a  magic  carpet  which  sim- 
ply floats  in  space.  Certainly  there  is  no  more 
beautiful  view-point  in  all  the  world  than  that 
from  the  height  overlooking  Monaco,  Monte 
Carlo,  and  Cap  Martin,  all  bedded  like  jewels 
amid  an  inconceivable  brilliancy  and  softness, 
a  combination  which  seems  paradoxical  enough 
in  print,  but  which  in  real  life  is  quite  the  re- 
verse, although  it  is  ravishingly  beautiful 
enough  to  be  unreal. 

The  twenty-franc  excursionists  from  Nice 
are  rushed  out  from  town  in  the  early  morn- 


352  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

ing,  via  "  La  Grande  Corniche,"  to  Menton, 
and  back  in  the  early  afternoon  via  the  ' l  Route 
du  Bord  du  Mer,"  at  something  like  the  speed 
that  the  malle-poste  of  other  days  used  to 
thread  the  great  national  roadways  of  France. 
Really  the  excursion  is  quite  worth  the  money, 
and  you  do  cover  the  ground,  but  you  cover 
it  much  too  rapidly,  and  so  do  the  speeding 
automobilists.  By  far  the  best  way  to  drink 
in  all  the  beauties  of  this  delightful  promenade 
is  to  devote  a  week  to  it,  and  do  it  on  foot. 
Walking  tours  are  not  fashionable  any  more, 
and  in  many  thousands  of  miles  of  travel  by 
road  in  France,  the  writer  has  never  so  much 
as  walked  between  neighbouring  villages,  but 
some  day  that  promenade  au  pied  is  going  to 
be  made  on  the  "  Corniche  "  between  Nice  and 
Menton,  returning,  as  do  the  "  trippers,"  via 
the  lower  road  through  Monte  Carlo,  La  Con- 
damine,  and  Beaulieu.  It  is  the  only  way  to 
appreciate  the  artistic  beauties,  and  the  stra- 
tegic value,  of  this  great  highway  of  a  civiliza- 
tion of  another  day,  whose  life,  if  not  as  refined 
as  that  of  the  present,  could  hardly  have  been 
more  dissolute  than  that  which  to-day  goes  on 
to  some  extent  here  in  this  playground  of  the 
world. 

One   should   make   the   journey   out   by  the 


Villefranche  and  the  Fortifications  353 

1 '  Corniche  ' '  and  back  by  the  waterside,  lunch- 
ing at  the  auberge  at  Eze  off  an  anchovy  or 
two,  a  handful  of  dried  figs,  and  a  flagon  of 
thick,  red,  perfumed  wine.  Then  he  will  indeed 
think  life  worth  living,  and  regret  that  such 
things  as  railway  trains,  automobiles,  and  pal- 
ace hotels  ever  existed. 

Beyond  Nice  the  Corniche  route  toward  Italy 
is  ample  and  majestic  throughout  its  whole 
course,  though,  as  a  whole,  it  is  no  more  beau- 
tiful than  that  Corniche  by  the  Esterel.  It 
winds  around  Mont  Gros,  at  the  back  of  Nice, 
and  reaches  its  greatest  height  just  beyond  the 
Auberge  de  la  Drette.  En  route,  at  least  after 
passing  the  Col  des  Quatre  Chemins,  there  is 
that  ever-present  panorama  of,  the  Mediterra- 
nean blue  which  all  Frenchmen,  and  most  dwell- 
ers on  its  shores,  and  some  others  besides,  con- 
sider the  most  beautiful  bit  of  water  in  the 
world. 

To  know  the  full  charms  of  the  road  from 
Nice  to  Villefranche  and  Beaulieu  one  should 
start  early  in  the  morning,  say  in  April  or  even 
May,  when,  to  him  who  has  only  known  the 
Riviera  in  the  winter  months,  the  very  liquid- 
ness  of  the  atmosphere  and  the  landscape  will 
be  a  revelation.  All  is  impregnated  with  a 
penetrating  gentle  light,  under  which  the  house 


354  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

walls,  the  roadway,  the  waves,  the  rocks,  and 
the  foliage  take  on  a  subtle  tone  which  is  quite 
indescribable  and  quite  different  from  the  arti- 
ficiality which  is  more  or  less  present  all 
through  the  Riviera  towns  in  winter.  There 
is  a  difference,  too,  from  the  sun-baked  dryness 
of  the  dead  of  summer.  Each  rock,  each  cliff, 
each  bank  of  sand,  and  each  wavelet  of  the 
Mediterranean  has  a  note  which  forms  the  one 
tone  needful  for  the  gamut  which  is  played 
upon  one's  emotions. 

Rounding  Mont  Boron  by  the  coast  road,  one 
soon  comes  to  Villefranche,  whose  very  name 
indicates  the  privileges  which  were  accorded  to 
it  by  its  founder,  Charles  II.,  Comte  de  Pro- 
vence et  Roi  de  Naples.  Built  in  1295,  it  became 
at  once  a  free  trading  port,  and  speedily  drew 
to  itself  a  very  considerable  population.  Soon, 
too,  it  came  into  prominence  as  a  military  port, 
and  the  Dues  de  Savoie  made  it  their  chief 
arsenal. 

To-day  Villefranche  occupies  a  very  equiv- 
ocal position.  It  has  a  population  of  something 
over  five  thousand  souls,  and  its  splendid  har- 
bour gives  it  a  prominence  in  naval  circles 
which  is  well  deserved;  but,  in  spite  of  this, 
the  town  has  none  of  the  attributes  of  the  other 
Riviera  coast  towns  and  cities. 


Villefranche  and  the  Fortifications  355 


The  prevailing  note  of  Villefranche  is  Ori- 
ental, with  its  house  walls  kalsomined  in  red, 
blue,  and  pink,  in  ravishingly  delicate  and  pic- 
turesque tones;  really  a  great  improvement, 
from  every  point  of  view,  to  the  whitewash  of 
Anglo-Saxon  lands.  The  French  name  for  this 
species  of  decoration  is  the  worst  thing  about 
it,  and,  unless  one  has  a  considerable  French 
vocabulary,  the  word  "  badigeonee  "  means 
nothing.  Another  exotic  in  the  way  of  nomen- 
clature which  one  meets  at  Villefranche  is 
moucharabieh,  which  is  not  found  in  many  dic- 
tionaries of  the  French  language.  A  mouch- 
arabieh is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  unique 
variety  of  window  screen  or  blind,  behind 
which,  taking  into  account  the  Eastern  aspect 
of  all  things  in  Villefranche,  one  needs  only 
to  see  the  beautiful  head  of  an  Oriental  maiden 
to  imagine  himself  in  far  Arabia. 

It  is  but  a  step  beyond  Villefranche  to  Beau- 
lieu  and  "  La  Petite  Afrique,"  generally 
thought  to  be  the  most  exclusive  and  retired 
of  all  the  Riviera  resorts.  To  a  great  extent 
this  is  so,  though  the  scorching  automobilists 
of  the  nouveau-riche  variety  have  covered  its 
giant  olive-trees  with  a  powdery  whiteness 
which  has  considerably  paled  their  already 
delicate  gray  tones. 


356 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


Between  Villefranche  and  Beaulieu  is  the 
peninsula*  of  St.  Jean,  washed  by  the  waves 
on  either  side  and  as  indented  and  jagged  as 
the  shores  of  Greece.     To-day  it  has  become 


rv. 


Villa  of  Leopold,  King  of  Belgium 

an  annex  of  Nice,  with  opulent  villas  of  kings, 
princes,  and  millionaires,  from  Leopold,  King 
of  Belgium  down. 

At  St.  Jean-sur-Mer,  midway  down  the  penin- 
sula, is  a  little  fishing  village,  still  quaint  and 
unspoiled  amid  all  the  splendours  of  the  palaces 


Villefranche  and  the  Fortifications  357 

of  kings  and  villas  of  millionaires,  which  have 
of  late  grown  so  plentiful  in  this  once  virgin 
forest  tract.  There  are  many  souvenirs  here 
of  the  time  when  the  neighbourhood  was  occu- 
pied by  the  Knights  Hospitalers  of  St.  John 
of  Jerusalem,  and  there  is  much  history  and 
legend  connected  with  them.  Seaward  is  the 
Promontory  or  Pointe  de  St.  Hospice,  where 
the  Due  de  Savoie,  Emmanuel  Philibert,  built 
a  fortification.  It  was  an  ideal  spot  for  a 
defensive  work  of  this  nature,  though  it  pro- 
tected nothing  except  what  was  inside.  It  must, 
in  a  former  day,  have  been  a  very  satisfactory 
work  of  its  kind,  as  it  is  recorded  that  this 
prince,  coming  to  view  the  progress  of  the 
work,  and  fallen  upon  by  the  Saracens,  re- 
treated within  the  walls  of  his  new  defence, 
where  he  successfully  repulsed  all  their  attacks. 

Many  times  did  the  pirates  attack  this  out- 
post, but  finally,  as  the  country  became  peace- 
ful, a  hospice  came  to  take  the  place  of  the 
warlike  fortification,  and  from  this  establish- 
ment the  Pointe  de  St.  Hospice  of  to-day  takes 
its  name. 

Half-way  up  the  foot-hills  of  the  Alps  the 
great  white  ribbon  of  the  "  Corniche  "  rolls 
its  solitary  way  until  La  Turbie  is  reached. 
Here  is  a  little  village  seated  proudly  beneath 


358  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

that  colossal  ruin,  the  Augustan  trophy,  which 
has  been  a  marvel  and  subject  of  speculation 
for  archaeologists  for  ages  past.  One  thing 
seems  certain,  however,  and  that  is  that  it  was 
a  monument  commemorative  of  the  submission 
of  forty-five  distinct  peoples  of  western  Gaul 
to  the  power  of  Rome. 

Westward  is  Roquebrune,  where  the  "  Cor- 
niche  "  drops  to  the  two  hundred-metre  level, 
and  one  rapidly  approaches  the  sea  beyond 
Cap  Martin,  and  thus  reaches  Menton,  but  two 
kilometres  onward. 

The  coast  route  from  Nice  to  Menton  via 
Villefranche  and  Beaulieu  approximates  the 
same  length  as  the  "  Corniche  "  proper,  and 
its  charms  are  as  varied.  It  rolls  along  behind 
the  old  citadel  of  Mont  Boron  and  suddenly 
opens  up  the  magnificent  bay  of  Villefranche, 
the  favourite  Mediterranean  station  of  the 
Russians  and  Americans,  and  thence  on  rap- 
idly to  Beaulieu,  Monte  Carlo,  and  Menton. 

All  the  way  this  route  by  the  sea  follows  the 
shore  and  skirts  picturesque  gulfs  and  ca- 
lanques,  and  now  and  then  tunnels  a  hillside 
only  to  come  out  into  day  and  a  vista  more 
beautiful  than  that  which  was  left  behind. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

EZE   AND  LA   TURBIE 

The  ancient  Saracen  fortress  of  Eze  lies 
midway  between  Beaulieu  and  Monte  Carlo, 
somewhat  back  from  the  coast,  and  crowns  a 
pinnacle  such  as  is  usually  devoted  to  the  glory 
of  St.  Michel. 

As  one  climbs  the  steep  sides  of  the  hill,  the 
fantastic  outlines  of  the  roof-tops  silhouette 
themselves  against  the  sky  quite  like  a  scene 
from  Dante's  masterpiece,  or,  if  not  that,  like 
the  fabled  spectral  Brocken.  The  road  twists 
and  turns,  and  the  sea  and  shore  blend  them- 
selves into  one  of  those  incomparable  glories 
of  the  Riviera,  until  actually  one  stands  on  the 
little  plateau  which  moors  the  tiny  church  and 
its  surrounding  dwellings. 

The  Eza  of  yesterday  has  become  the  Eze 
of  to-day,  but  the  former  spelling  was  vastly 
more  euphonic,  and  it  is  a  pity  that  it  was  ever 
changed.  Eze  is  ruinous  to-day,  as  it  has  been 
for  ages,  and  pagan  and  Christian  monuments 
are  cheek  by  jowl. 

369 


360 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


Rising  abruptly  three  hundred  metres  from 
the  sea-level,  the  mountain  offered  a  stronghold 
well-nigh  unassailable.  First  the  Phoenicians 
occupied  it,  then  the  Phoceans,  followed  by  the 
Romans,  the  Saracens,  and  all  the  warring  fac- 
tions and  powers  of  mediaeval  times.  No  won- 
der it  is  reminiscent   of  all,  with  memorials 


Eze 

ranging  all  the  way  from  the  temple  dedicated 
to  the  Egyptian  cult  of  Isis  to  the  Christian 
church  seen  to-day. 

Centuries  passed  but  slowly  here,  and  the 
Moorish  hordes,  seeking  for  a  vantage-ground 
on  the  Ligurian  coast,  took  the  peak  for  their 
own.    The  early  founders  did  not  need  to  go 


Eze  and  La  Turbie  361 

afield  for  the  material  for  the  building  of  houses 
and  their  military  constructions.  It  was  all 
close  at  hand.  The  rocky  base  sufficed  for 
all. 

What  is  left  to-day  of  the  old  bourg,  remod- 
elled and  rebuilt  in  many  cases,  but  still  the 
original  structures  to  no  small  extent,  is  a 
veritable  museum  of  architectural  curiosities. 

What  an  accented  note  it  is  in  the  whole  vast 
expanse  of  green  and  blue!  It  is  literally 
worth  coming  miles  to  see,  even  if  one  makes 
the  wearisome  journey  on  foot. 

Eze  is  sequestered  from  all  the  world,  and, 
like  Normandy's  Mont  St.  Michel,  would  be 
an  ideal  place  in  which  to  shut  oneself  up  if 
one  wanted  to  escape  from  his  enemies  (and 
friends). 

The  shrine  of  Notre  Dame  de  Laghet  lies 
in  the  country  back  of  Eze,  but  rather  nearer 
to  La  Turbie.  The  whole  south  venerated  Our 
Lady  of  Laghet  in  days  gone  by,  and  came  to 
worship  at  her  shrine.  The  neighbouring  coun- 
try is  severe  and  less  gracious  than  that  of  most 
of  the  flowering  Eiviera ;  but,  in  the  early  days 
of  spring,  with  the  hardier  blossoms  well  for- 
ward, it  is  as  delightful  an  environment  for 
a  shrine  as  one  can  well  expect  to  find. 

Historic  souvenirs  in  connection  with  Notre 


362  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

Dame  de  Laghet  are  many.  The  Due  de  Savoie, 
Victor  Amedee,  came  here  to  worship  in  1689, 
and  a  century  and  a  half  later,  his  descendant, 
Charles  Albert,  shorn  of  his  crown,  and  a  fugi- 
tive, sought  shelter  here  from  the  dangers 
which  beset  him.  Here  he  knelt  devoutly  be- 
fore the  Madonna,  and  prayed  that  his  enemies 
might  be  forgiven.  A  tablet  to-day  memorial- 
izes the  event. 

The  little  church  of  the  establishment  con- 
tains hundreds  of  votive  offerings  left  by  pious 
pilgrims,  and,  though  architecturally  the  edi- 
fice is  a  poor,  humble  thing,  it  ranks  high 
among  the  places  of  modern  pilgrimage. 

A  kilometre  beyond  the  gardens  which  face 
the  Casino  at  Monte  Carlo  is  a  little  winding 
road  leading  blindly  up  the  hillside.  "  Ou 
conduit-il?  "  you  ask  of  a  straggler;  "  A  La 
Turbie,  m'sieu;  "  and  forthwith  you  mount, 
spurning  the  aid  of  the  funiculaire  farther 
down  the  road.  When  one  has  progressed  a 
hundred  metres  along  this  serpentine  roadway, 
•the  whole  ensemble  of  beauties  with  which  one 
has  become  familiar  at  the  coast  are  magnified 
and  enhanced  beyond  belief.  Nowhere  is  there 
a  gayer,  livelier  colouring  to  be  seen  on  the 
Riviera ;  this  in  spite  of  the  conventionality  of 
the  glistening  walls  of  the  great  hotels  and 


Eze  and  La  Turbie  363 

the  artificial  gardens  with  which  the  vicinity 
of  the  paradise  of  Monte  Carlo  abounds. 

As  one  turns  another  hairpin  corner,  another 
plane  of  the  horizon  opens  out  until,  after  pass- 
ing various  isolated  small  houses,  and  zigzag- 
ging upward  another  couple  of  kilometres,  he 
enters  upon  the  "  Route  d'ltalie,"  and  thence 
either  turns  to  the  left  to  La  Turbie,  or  to  the 
right  to  Roquebrune,  a  half-dozen  kilometres 
farther  on. 

La  Turbie  is  quite  as  much  of  an  exotic  as 
Eze.  It  is  as  vivid  a  reminder  of  a  glory  that 
is  past  as  any  monumental  town  still  extant, 
and  its  noble  Augustan  Trophy,  as  a  memorial 
of  a  historical  past,  is  far  greater  than  any- 
thing of  its  kind  out  of  Rome  itself.  There  is 
something  almost  sublime  about  this  great  sky- 
piercing  tower,  a  monument  to  the  vanquishing 
of  the  peoples  of  Gaul  by  the  Roman  legions. 

Fragments  of  this  great  "  trophy  "  have 
been  carted  away,  and  are  to  be  found  all  over 
the  neighbouring  country.  Barbarians  and 
Saracens,  one  and  all,  pillaged  the  noble  tower 
("  the  magnificent  witness  to  the  powers  of 
the  divine  Augustus, ' '  as  the  French  historians 
call  it),  using  it  as  a  quarry  from  which  was 
drawn  the  building  material  for  many  of  their 
later  works.    Without  scruple  it  has  been  shorn 


364 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


of  its  attributes  until  to-day  it  is  only  a  bare, 
gaunt  skeleton  of  its  former  proud  self.  Its 
marbles  have  been  dispersed,  some  are  in  Nice, 
some  in  Monaco,  and  some  in  Genoa,  but  the 


L»TurOi'e 


Augustan  Trophy,  La  Turbie 


greatest  of  all  the  indignities  which  the  edifice 
underwent  was  that  thrust  upon  it  by  Berwick, 
in  1706,  when  attempts  were  actually  made  to 
pull  it  to  the  ground. 

What  its  splendours  must  once  have  been 


Eze  and  La  Turbie  365 

may  best  be  imagined  from  the  following  de- 
scription : 

"  A  massive  quadrangular  tower  surrounded 
with  columns  of  the  Doric  order  and  orna- 
mented with  statues  of  the  lieutenants  of  Au- 
gustus, and  personifications  of  the  vanquished 
peoples.  Surmounting  all  was  a  colossal  statue 
of  the  emperor  himself." 

La  Turbie  has  a  most  interesting  "  porte/' 
once  fortified,  but  now  a  mere  gateway.  It 
dates  from  the  sixteenth  century,  and  is  an 
exceedingly  satisfying  example  of  what  a  medi- 
aeval gateway  was  in  feudal  times. 

The  church  of  the  town  is  of  great  size  and 
well  kept,  but  otherwise  is  in  no  way  remark- 
able. 

As  with  the  founders  of  Eze,  the  builders  of 
La  Turbie  and  its  great  Augustan  Trophy  had 
their  material  close  at  hand,  and  there  was  no 
need  for  the  laborious  carrying  of  material 
from  a  distance  which  accompanied  the  build- 
ing of  many  mediaeval  monuments  and  forti- 
fications. 

A  quarry  was  to  be  made  anywhere  that  one 
chose  to  dig  in  the  hillside,  and,  though  no 
traces  of  the  exact  location  whence  the  mate- 
rial was  dug  is  to  be  seen  to-day,  there  is  no 
question  but  that  it  was  a  home  product.    The 


366  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

marbles  and  statues  alone  were  brought  from 
afar. 

Eoquebrune,  onward  toward  Menton,  is  more 
individual  in  the  character  of  its  people  and 
their  manners  and  customs  than  any  of  the 
other  towns  and  villages  near  the  great  Rivi- 
era pleasure  resorts.  The  ground  is  cultivated 
in  small  plots,  and  olive  and  fruit  trees  abound, 
and  occasionally,  sheltered  on  a  little  terrace, 
is  a  tiny  vineyard  struggling  to  make  its  way. 
The  vine,  curiously  enough,  does  not  prosper 
well  here,  at  least  not  the  extent  that  it  for- 
merly did,  and  accordingly  it  is  a  good  deal  of 
a  struggle  to  get  a  satisfactory  crop,  no  matter 
how  favourable  the  season. 

Here  in  the  vicinity  of  Eoquebrune  one  sees 
the  little  donkeys  so  well  known  throughout  the 
mountainous  parts  of  Italy  and  France.  They 
are  sure-footed  little  beasts,  like  their  brother 
burros  of  the  Sierras  and  the  Rockies,  and  ap- 
pear not  to  differ  from  them  in  the  least,  unless 
they  are  smaller.  All  through  the  region  to 
the  northward  of  the  coast  they  file  in  caval- 
cades, bearing  their  burdens  in  panniers  and 
saddle-bags  in  quite  century-old  fashion,  and 
as  if  automobiles  and  railways  had  never  been 
heard  of.  An  automobile  would  have  a  hard 
time  of  it  on  some  of  the  by-roads  accessible 


Eze  and  La  Turbie  367 

only  to  these  tiny  beasts  of  burden,  which  often 
weigh  but  eighty  kilos  and  cost  little  or  noth- 
ing for  provender. 

These  little  Savoian  donkeys  are  gentle  and 
good-natured,  but  obstinate  when  it  comes  to 
pushing  on  at  a  gait  which  the  driver  may  wish, 
but  which  has  not  yet  dawned  upon  the  donkey 
as  being  desirable.  This,  apparently,  is  the 
national  trait  of  the  whole  donkey  kingdom, 
so  there  is  nothing  remarkable  about  it.  He 
will  go,  —  when  you  twist  his  tail,  —  and  if 
you  twist  it  to  the  right  he  will  turn  to  the 
left,  and  vice  versa.  A  sailor  would  be  quite 
at  home  with  a  donkey  of  Eoquebrune. 

Roquebrune  is  tranquil  enough  to-day,  though 
there  have  been  times  when  the  rocky  giant  on 
whose  bosom  it  sleeps  awakened  with  a  roar 
which  shook  the  very  foundations  of  its  houses. 
These  earthquakes  have  not  been  frequent ;  the 
last  was  in  1887;  but  the  memory  of  it  is 
enough  to  give  fear  to  the  timid  whenever  a 
summer  thunder-storm  breaks  forth. 

Roquebrune  occupies  a  height  very  much  in- 
ferior to  that  on  which  sits  La  Turbie;  but 
the  panorama  from  the  town  is  in  no  way  less 
marvellous,  nor  is  it  greatly  different,  hence 
it  is  not  necessary  to  recount  its  beauties  here. 


368  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

There  is  considerably  more  vegetation  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  there  are  many  lemon-trees, 
with  rich  ripening  fruit,  instead  of  the  dwarfed 
unripe  oranges  which  one  finds  at  many  other 
places  along  the  Eiviera. 

The  lemon-tree  is  the  real  thermometer  of  the 
region,  and  the  inhabitant  has  no  need  of  the 
appliances  of  Eeaumur  or  Fahrenheit,  or  the 
more  facile  Centigrade,  for  when  three  degrees 
of  frost  strikes  in  through  the  skin  of  the  lemon, 
it  withers  up  and  dies.  The  orange,  curiously 
enough,  resists  this  first  attack  of  cold. 

Eoquebrune,  like  La  Turbie,  abounds  in 
vaulted  streets  and  terraced  hillsides,  allowing 
one  to  step  from  the  roofs  of  one  line  of  houses 
to  the  dooryards  of  another  in  most  quaint 
and  picturesque  fashion.  The  people  of  Eoque- 
brune are  a  prosperous  and  contented  lot,  and 
have  the  reputation  of  being  "  as  laborious 
as  the  bee  and  as  economical  as  the  ant." 

At  the  highest  point,  above  most  of  the  roof- 
tops of  Eoquebrune,  are  found  the  ruins  of 
its  chateau,  in  turn  a  one-time  possession  of 
the  Lascaris  and  the  Grimaldi,  and  belonging 
to  the  latter  family  when  the  town  and  Menton 
were  ceded  to  France.  From  the  platform  of 
the  ancient  citadel  one  readily  enough  sees  the 


JES 


A  Roquebrune  Doonvay 


Eze  and  La  Turbie  369 

point  of  the  legend  which  describes  Roquebrune 
as  once  having  occupied  the  very  summit  of 
the  height,  and,  in  the  course  of  ages,  slipping 
down  to  its  present  position. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

OLD   MONACO   AND   NEW    MONTE   CARLO 

' '  Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  ' '  might 
well  be  made  the  title  of  a  book,  for  their 
stories  have  never  been  entirely  told  in  respect 
to  their  relations  to  the  world  of  past  and  pres- 
ent. Certainly  the  question  of  the  morality 
or  immorality  of  the  present  institution  of 
Monte  Carlo,  called  by  the  narrow-minded  a 
"  gambling-hell,"  has  never  been  thrashed  out 
in  all  its  aspects.  Instead  of  being  a  blight, 
it  may  be  just  a  safety-valve  which  works  for 
the  good  of  the  world.  It  is  something  to  have 
one  spot  where  all  the  "  swell  mobsmen  "  of 
the  world  congregate,  or,  at  least,  pass,  sooner 
or  later,  for,  like  "  Shepheards  "  at  Cairo  and 
the  "  Cafe  de  la  Paix  "  at  Paris,  Monte  Carlo 
sooner  or  later  is  visited  by  all  the  world,  the 
moralists  to  whine  and  deplore  all  its  loveli- 
ness being  wasted  on  the  evil-doer,  the  preacher 
out  of  curiosity  (as  he  invariably  tells  you, 
and  probably  this  is  so) ;  the  sentimental  young 
girls  and  their  mammas  to  be  seen  and  to  see 

370 


Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  371 

and  (perhaps?)  to  play,  and  the  pleasure-lov- 
ing and  the  care-worn  business  man  —  for  nine 


MONTt   CARLO 


MONACO 


years  and  nine  months  out  of  ten  —  to  play  a 
little,  and,  when  they  have  lost  all  they  can 
afford,  to  withdraw  without  a  regret.  There 
is  another  class,  several  other  classes  in  fact, 


372  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

but  it  is  assumed  that  they  need  not  be  men- 
tioned here. 

Unquestionably  there  are  many  tragedies 
consummated  at  Monte  Carlo,  and  all  because 
of  the  tables,  and  it  is  also  true  that  the  same 
sort  of  tragedies  take  place  in  Paris,  London, 
and  New  York,  but  it  isn't  the  gambling  craze 
alone  that  has  brought  them  about,  and,  any- 
way, one  can  come  to  Monte  Carlo  and  have 
a  very  good  time,  and  not  become  addicted  to 
11  the  game."  To  be  sure  not  many  do,  but 
that  is  the  fault  of  the  individual  and  not  the 
"  Administration,"  that  all-powerful  anony- 
mous body  which  controls  the  whole  conduct 
of  affairs  at  Monte  Carlo. 

Some  one  has  remarked  the  seemingly  sig- 
nificant coat  of  arms  of  the  present  reigning 
Prince  of  Monaco,  but  assuredly  he  had  very 
little  knowledge  of  heraldry  to  assume  that  it 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  pleasure-making 
suburb  of  the  capital  of  the  Principality.  It 
seems  well  enough  to  make  mention  of  the  fact 
here,  if  only  to  explode  one  of  the  fabulous 
tales  which  pass  current  among  that  class  of 
tourists  who  come  here,  and,  having  hazarded 
a  couple  of  coins  at  the  tables,  go  home  and 
mouth  their  adventures  to  awed  acquaintances. 
Their  tales  of  fearful  adventure,  and  the  anec- 


Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  373 

dote  that  the  blazoning  of  the  arms  of  the 
reigning  prince  represents  the  layout  of  the 
gaming-tables,  are  really  too  threadbare  and 
thin  to  pass  current  any  longer. 

To  many  the  Riviera  means  that  "  beautiful, 
subtle,  sinister  place,  Monte  Carlo,"  and  in- 
deed it  is  the  most  idyllically  situated  of  the 
whole  little  paradise  of  coast  towns  from  Mar- 
seilles to  Genoa,  and  perhaps  in  all  the  world. 

Whatever  the  moral  aspect  of  Monte  Carlo 
is  or  is  not,  there  is  no  doubt  but  that  it  is  one 
of  the  best  paying  enterprises  in  the  amuse- 
ment world,  else  how  could  M.  Blanc  have  lived 
in  a  palace  which  kings  might  envy,  and  have 
kept  the  most  famous  string  of  race-horses  in 
France.  Certainly  not  out  of  a  ' '  losing  game. ' ' 
He  himself  made  a  classic  bon  mot  when  he 
said,  "  Rouge  gagne  quelquefois,  noir  souvent, 
mais  Blanc  toujours." 

M.  Blanc  was  a  singularly  astute  individual. 
He  knew  his  game  and  he  played  it  well,  or 
rather  his  tables  and  his  croupiers  did  it  for 
him,  and  he  even  welcomed  men  with  systems 
which  they  fondly  believed  would  sooner  or 
later  break  the  bank,  for  he  knew  that  the  best 
of  "  systems  "  would  but  add  to  the  profits 
of  the  bank  in  the  long  run.  He  even  answered 
an  inquisitive  person,  who  wanted  to  know  how 


374  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

one  should  gamble  in  order  to  win:  "  The  most 
sensible  advice  I  can  give  you  is  — '  Don't.'  " 

One  reads  in  a  local  guide-book  that  the 
chances  between  the  player  and  the  bank,  tak- 
ing all  the  varieties  of  games  into  considera- 
tion, is  as  60  to  61,  and  that  the  winnings  of 
the  bank  were  something  like  £1,000,000  ster- 
ling per  year.  This  would  seem  to  mean  that 
the  players  of  Europe  and  America  took  £61,- 
000,000  to  Monte  Carlo  each  year,  and  brought 
away  £60,000,000,  leaving  £1,000,000  behind  as 
the  price  of  their  pleasure.  The  magnitude  of 
these  figures  is  staggering,  and  so  able  a 
statistician  as  Sir  Hiram  Maxim  refuted  them 
utterly  a  couple  of  years  ago  as  follows : 

"  If  the  bank  actually  won  one  million  ster- 
ling a  year,  and  its  chances  were  only  1  in  60 
better  than  the  players,  it  would  seem  quite 
evident  that  sixty-one  millions  must  have  been 
staked.  However,  upon  visiting  Monte  Carlo 
and  carefully  studying  the  play,  I  found  that 
instead  of  the  players  taking  £61,000,000  to 
Monte  Carlo,  and  losing  £1,000,000  of  it,  the 
total  amount  probably  did  not  exceed  £1,000,- 
000,  of  which  the  bank,  instead  of  winning,  as 
shown  in  the  guide-book,  about  V/2  per  cent., 
actually  won  rather  more  than  90  per  cent.; 
therefore,  the  advantages  in  favour  of  the  bank, 


Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  375 

instead  of  being  61  to  60,  were  approximately 
10  to  1."      • 

This  ought  to  correct  any  preconceived  false 
notions  of  percentages  and  sum  totals. 

The  law  of  averages  is  a  very  simple  thing 
in  which  most  people,  in  respect  to  gambling, 
and  many  other  matters,  have  a  supreme  faith ; 
but  Sir  Hiram  disposes  of  this  in  a  very  few 
words.  He  says :  i  i  Let  us  see  what  the  actual 
facts  are. 

"  If  red  has  come  up  twenty  times  in  suc- 
cession, it  is  just  as  likely  to  come  up  at  the 
twenty-first  time  as  it  would  be  if  it  had  not 
come  up  before  for  a  week.  Each  particular 
1  coup  '  is  governed  altogether  by  the  physical 
conditions  existing  at  that  particular  instant. 
The  ball  spins  round  a  great  many  times  in  a 
groove.  When  its  momentum  is  used  up,  it 
comes  in  contact  with  several  pieces  of  brass, 
and  finally  tumbles  into  a  pocket  in  the  wheel 
which  is  rotating  in  an  opposite  direction.  It 
is  a  pure  and  unadulterated  question  of  chance, 
and  it  is  not  influenced  in  the  least  by  anything 
which  has  ever  taken  place  before,  or  that  will 
take  place  in  the  future." 

Thus  vanish  all  "  systems  "  and  note-books, 
and  all  the  schemes  and  devices  by  which 
the  deluded  punter  hopes  to  beat  M.  Blanc  at  his 


376  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

own  game.  It  is  possible  to  play  at  "  Rouge  et 
Noir  "  at  Monte  Carlo  and  win,  —  if  you  don't 
play  too  long,  and  luck  is  not  against  you ;  but 
if  you  stick  at  it  long  enough,  you  are  sure  to 
lose.  There  was  once  a  man  who  went  to  Monte 
Carlo  and  played  the  very  simple  "  Rouge  et 
Noir  "  in  a  sane  and  moderate  fashion,  and 
in  three  years  was  the  winner  by  twenty-five 
thousand  francs.  He  returned  the  fourth  year, 
and  in  three  weeks  lost  it  all,  and  another  ten 
thousand  besides.  He  gave  up  the  amusement 
from  that  time  forward  as  being  too  expensive 
for  the  pleasure  that  one  got  out  of  it. 

As  a  business  proposition,  the  modestly 
titled  "  Societe  Anonyme  des  Bains  de  Mer  et 
Cercle  des  Strangers  "  (for  it  is  well  to  recall 
that  the  inhabitants  of  Monte  Carlo  are  for- 
bidden entrance,  their  morals,  at  least,  being 
taken  into  consideration)  is  of  the  very  first 
rank.  It  earned  for  its  shareholders  in  1904-05 
the  magnificent  sum  of  thirty-six  million  francs, 
an  increase  within  the  year  of  some  two  mil- 
lions. It  is  steadily  becoming  more  prosperous, 
and  the  businesslike  prince  who  rents  out  the 
concession  has  had  his  salary  raised  from 
1,250,000  francs  to  1,750,000  francs  per  annum, 
on  an  agreement  to  run  for  fifty  years  longer. 

By  those  who  know  it  is  a  well-recognized 


Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  377 

fact  that  the  bank  at  Monte  Carlo  loses  more 
by  fraud  than  by  any  defects  in  its  system  of 
play.  From  the  pages  of  that  unique  example 
of  modern  journalism,  "  Eouge  et  Noir  — 
L'Organe  de  Defense  des  Joueurs  de  Roulette 
et  de  Trente-et-Quarante,"  are  culled  the  two 
following  incidents : 

A  certain  gambler,  Ardisson  by  name,  bribed 
a  croupier  to  insert  a  specially  shuffled  pack 
into  the  "  Trente-et-Quarante  "  game  one  fine 
evening,  during  an  interval  when  attention  was 
diverted  by  a  female  accomplice  having  dropped 
a  roll  of  louis  on  the  floor.  After  eight  abnor- 
mal "  coups,"  the  bank  succumbed,  —  "  la  so- 
ciete  se  retire  majestueusement,"  the  informa- 
tive sheet  puts  it,  — 180,000  francs  out  of 
pocket.  The  swindler  —  for  all  gamblers  are 
not  swindlers  —  and  his  accomplice,  or  accom- 
plices, made  their  way  safely  across  the  fron- 
tier, and  the  only  echo  of  the  event  was  heard 
when  the  guilty  croupier  was  sentenced  to  two 
months'  imprisonment,  —  a  period  of  confine- 
ment for  which  he  was  doubtless  well  paid. 

Another  incident  recounted  in  this  most  in- 
teresting newspaper  was  that  of  one  Jaggers, 
an  Englishman  from  Yorkshire,  where  all  men 
are  singularly  knowing.  This  individual  dis- 
covered that  one  of  the  roulette-wheels  had  a 


378  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

distinct  tendency  toward  a  certain  number. 
His  persistency  in  backing  that  number  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  the  bank's  detectives, 
who  marvelled  at  his  continued  run  of  luck. 
Eventually  the  authorities  solved  the  problem, 
and  now  the  roulette-wheels  are  interchange- 
able, and  are  moved  daily  from  one  set  of  bear- 
ings to  another. 

Once  it  was  planned  to  explode  a  bomb  near 
the  gas-metre  in  the  basement,  and  in  the  ex- 
citement, after  the  lights  went  out,  to  rob  the 
tables  and  players  alike.  This  plan  was  con- 
ceived by  a  gang  of  ordinary  thieves,  who 
needed  no  great  intelligence  to  concoct  such 
a  scheme,  which,  needless  to  say,  was  nipped 
in  the  bud. 

Some  years  ago  the  game  was  played  with 
counters  which  were  bought  at  a  little  side- 
table.  A  gang  of  counterfeiters  made  these 
in  duplicate,  and  had  a  considerable  haul  before 
the  trick  was  discovered.  The  museum  of  the 
Casino  has  many  of  these  unstable  records,  but 
a  change  was  immediately  made  in  favour  of 
five- franc  pieces,  louis,  and  notes  of  the  Banque 
de  France,  which  are  no  more  likely  to  be  coun- 
terfeited for  playing  the  tables  at  Monte  Carlo 
than  they  are  for  general  purposes  of  trade. 

Formerly  one  could  wager  a  great  "  pill- 


Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  379 

box  ' '  roll  of  five-franc  pieces  done  up  in  paper, 
—  twenty  of  them  to  the  hundred,  —  but  to-day 
the  envelope  must  be  broken  open.  Some  one 
won  a  lot  of  money  once  with  some  similar  rolls 
of  iron,  which,  until  the  daily  or  weekly  inven- 
tory on  the  part  of  the  bank,  were  not  discov- 
ered to  be  foreign  to  the  coin  of  the  realm. 

There  are  two  sides  to  the  life  and  environ- 
ment of  Monaco  and  Monte  Carlo;  there  is 
the  beautiful  and  gay  side,  for  the  lover  of 
charming  vistas  and  a  lovely  climate ;  and  there 
is  the  practical,  dark,  and  sordid  side,  of  which 
"  the  game  "  is  the  all. 

Much  has  been  written  of  the  moral  or  im- 
moral aspect  of  the  place,  and  the  discussion 
shall  have  no  place  here.  The  reader  will  find 
it  all  set  out  again  in  his  daily,  weekly,  or 
monthly  journal  sometime  during  the  present 
year,  as  it  has  appeared  perennially  for  many 
years. 

Monaco  is  old  and  Monte  Carlo  is  new.  The 
history  of  Monaco  runs  back  for  many  cen- 
turies. The  Phoenicians  built  a  temple  to  Her- 
cules here  long  before  its  political  history  be- 
gan; then  for  a  time  it  was  a  rendezvous  for 
pirates,  and  finally  it  fell  to  the  Genoese  Re- 
public. Jean  II.  became  the  seigneur,  and  left 
it  to  his  propre  frere,  Lucien  Grimaldi,  the 


380  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

ancestor  of  the  present  house  of  Griinaldi,  to 
whom  the  princes  of  to-day  belong.  Thus  it 
is  that  the  Prince  of  Monaco,  though  the  sov- 
ereign of  the  smallest  political  state  of  Europe, 
belongs  to  the  oldest  reigning  house.  Monaco 
is  a  relic  of  the  ages  past,  but  Monte  Carlo 
is  a  thing  of  yesterday. 

Monte  Carlo  is  the  result  of  the  labours  of 
M.  Blanc,  who,  though  not  the  creator  of  the 
vast  enterprise  as  it  exists  to-day,  was  the  real 
developer  of  the  scheme.  He  attained  great 
wealth  and  distinction,  as  is  borne  out  by  the 
fact  that  he  lived  luxuriously  and  was  able  to 
marry  his  daughters  to  princes  of  the  great 
house  of  Napoleon. 

Blanc  showed  his  business  acumen  when  he 
got  a  concession  from  the  Prince  of  Monaco  to 
run  a  gambling-machine  at  Monte  Carlo.  He 
got  the  concession  first,  and  then  bought  out 
a  weak,  puny  establishment  which  was  already 
in  operation,  after  having  made  the  proprietors 
a  proposition  which  he  gave  them  two  hours  to 
accept  or  reject.  The  contract  closed,  he  ar- 
ranged immediately  to  begin  the  new  Casino 
with  Gamier,  the  designer  of  the  Paris  Opera, 
as  his  architect.  Opposite  it  he  built  the  Hotel 
de  Paris,  which  has  the  deserved  reputation 
of  being  the  most  expensive  hotel  in  existence. 


Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  381 

Like  everything  else  at  Monte  Carlo,  you  get 
your  money's  worth,  but  things  are  not  cheap. 
The  Prince  of  Monaco  generously  gave  his 
name  to  the  place,  and  the  enterprise  —  for  at 
this  time  it  was  nothing  more  than  a  great 
collective  enterprise  —  was  christened  Monte 
Carlo. 

Everything  comes  to  him  who  waits,  and  soon 
the  Paris,  Lyons,  and  Mediterranean  Eailway 
extended  its  line  to  the  gay  little  city  of  pleas- 
ure, in  spite  of  the  pressure  brought  to  bear 
by  other  Eiviera  cities  and  towns  to  the  west- 
ward. Thus  the  place  started,  almost  at  once, 
as  a  full-grown  and  lusty  grabber  of  the  peo- 
ple's money,  always  wanting  more;  and  the 
world  came  on  luxurious  trains,  whereas  for- 
merly they  made  their  way  by  a  cranky  little 
steamboat  from  Nice,  or  by  the  coach-and-four 
of  other  days. 

Like  most  successful  handlers  of  other  peo- 
ple's money,  Blanc  was  a  reader  of  man's  emo- 
tions. He  knew  his  customers,  and  he  knew 
that  many  of  them  were  the  scum  of  the  earth, 
and  he  guarded  carefully  against  allowing  them 
too  much  freedom.  He  may  have  feared  his 
life,  or  he  may  have  feared  capture  for  ransom, 
like  missionaries  and  political  suspects,  and 
for  this  reason  M.  Blanc  went  about  with  never 


382  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


a  penny  on  his  person.  He  carried  a  blank 
cheque,  however,  printed,  it  is  said,  in  red  ink 
—  for  the  old-stager  at  Monte  Carlo  still  likes 
to  regale  the  nouveau  with  the  tale  —  and  good 
for  several  hundred  thousand  francs.  The 
"  man  in  the  box  "  had  very  explicit  instruc- 
tions never  to  pay  this  cheque,  should  it  turn 
up,  unless  he  had  previously  received  a  tele- 
gram ordering  him  to  do  so.  It  will  not  take 
the  sagacity  of  a  Dupin  or  a  Sherlock  Holmes 
to  evolve  the  reason  for  this,  but  it  was  a 
clever  idea  nevertheless. 

In  case  any  of  the  curious  really  want  to 
know  how  the  game  is  played,  the  following 
facts  are  given: 

Blanc's  organization  was  well-nigh  a  per- 
fect one,  and,  though  its  founder  is  now  dead, 
it  remains  the  same.  The  staff  is  a  large  one. 
At  the  head  is  an  administrator-general,  who 
has  three  collaborators,  also  known  as  admin- 
istrators, one  who  conducts  the  affairs  of  the 
outside  world,  has  charge  of  the  supplies  for 
the  establishment,  and  the  arrangements  for 
the  pigeon-shooting,  the  automobile  boat-races, 
the  care  of  the  gardens,  etc. ;  another  holds  the 
purse-strings  and  is  a  sort  of  head  cashier; 
and  the  third  has  charge  of  the  tables  and  their 
personnel. 


Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  383 


384  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

Under  this  last  is  a  director  of  the  games, 
three  assistant  directors,  four  chefs-de-table, 
—  which  sounds  as  though  they  might  be  cooks, 
but  who  in  reality  are  something  far  different ; 
then  come  five  inspectors,  and  fourteen  chiefs 
of  the  roulette-tables,  and  all  of  them  are  a 
pretty  high-salaried  class  of  employee,  as  such 
things  go  in  Europe. 

The  chiefs  of  the  roulette-tables  draw  seven 
and  five  hundred  francs  a  month,  for  very  short 
hours  and  easy  work. 

There  are  two  classes  of  dealers,  —  croupiers 
at  the  roulette-tables  and  tailleurs  at  "  trente- 
et-quarante,"  each  of  whom  receive  from  four 
to  six  hundred  francs  a  month,  according  to 
their  experience. 

The  apprentices,  who  some  day  expect  to 
become  croupiers,  —  those  who  do  the  raking 
in,  —  receive  two  hundred  francs  a  month.  All, 
however,  are  under  an  espionage  in  all  their 
sleeping,  waking,  and  working  moments  as  keen 
and  observant  as  if  they  were  bank  messengers 
in  "Wall  Street. 

Each  roulette-table  has  a  chef  and  a  sous- 
chef  and  seven  croupiers,  who  are  expected, 
it  is  said,  to  keep  their  hands  spread  open  be- 
fore them  on  the  table  between  all  the  turns 
of  the  wheel.     A  story  is  told,  which  may  or 


Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  385 

may  not  be  true,  of  a  croupier  who  was  inor- 
dinately fond  of  taking  snuff.  It  seemed  curi- 
ous that  a  coin  should  always  adhere  to  the 
bottom  of  his  snuff-box  whenever  he  laid  it 
down  upon  the  table,  and  accordingly  that  par- 
ticular croupier  was  banished  and  the  practice 
forbidden. 

Another  had  built  himself  a  nickle-in-the-slot 
arrangement  which,  with  remarkable  celerity, 
conducted  twenty-franc  pieces  from  somewhere 
on  the  rim  of  his  exceedingly  tall  and  stiff  col- 
lar to  an  unseen  money-belt.  Every  time  he 
scratched  his  ear,  or  slapped  at  an  imaginary 
mosquito,  it  cost  the  bank  a  gold  piece.  Now 
high  collars  are  banished  and  mosquito-netting 
is  at  every  door  and  window. 

No  employee  is  allowed  to  play,  nor  are  the 
Monegasques  themselves.  All  nations  are  rep- 
resented in  the  establishment,  French,  Italian, 
Eussians,  Belgians,  and  Swiss.  Once  there  was 
a  croupier  who  spoke  English  so  perfectly  that 
he  might  be  taken  for  an  Englishman  or  an 
American,  but  he  proved  to  be  a  native  of  the 
little  land  of  dikes  and  windmills,  where  they 
teach  English  in  the  schools  to  the  youth  of 
a  tender  age. 

The  French  language  reigns  and  French 
money  is  used  exclusively.    You  may  cash  sov- 


386  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

ereigns  and  eagles  at  the  bureau,  and  you  may 
do  your  banking  business  at  the  counters  of 
the  "  Credit-Lyonnais, "  which  discreetly  hangs 
out  its  shingle  just  over  the  border  on  French 
territory,  though  not  a  stone's  flight  from  the 
Casino  portals.  You  know  this  because  be- 
neath their  sign  you  read  another  in  bold,  flar- 
ing letters,  as  if  it  were  the  most  important 
of  all,  "On  French  Soil." 

The  three  towns  of  the  Principality  of  Mo- 
naco each  present  a  totally  different  aspect; 
but,  in  spite  of  all  its  loveliness,  one's  love  for 
Monte  Carlo  is  a  sensuous  sort  of  a  thing,  and 
it  is  with  a  real  relief  that  he  turns  to  admire 
Monaco  itself. 

Its  story  has  often  been  told,  but  there  al- 
ways seems  something  new  to  learn  of  it.  The 
writer  always  knew  that  its  flora  was  to  be 
remarked,  even  among  those  horticultural  ex- 
otics scattered  so  bountifully  all  over  the  Rivi- 
era, and  that,  apparently,  the  Monegasques  had 
the  art  instinct  highly  developed,  as  evinced 
by  the  many  beautiful  monuments  and  build- 
ings of  the  capital;  but  it  was  only  recently 
that  he  realized  the  excellence  of  the  typo- 
graphical art  of  the  printers  of  Monaco.  These 
craftsmen  have  reached  a  high  degree  of  pro- 
ficiency  and  taste,   as   evinced  by  that  most 


Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  387 

excellent  production,  the  "Collection  de  Docu- 
ments Historiques,"  published  by  the  archivist 
of  the  Principality,  and  the  '.'  Resultats  des 
Campagnes  Scientifiques  Accomplies  sur  son 
Yacht,  par  8.  A.  le  Prince  Albert  de  Monaco." 

Authors  the  world  over  might  well  wish  their 
works  produced  with  so  much  excellence  of  ty- 
pography and  so  rich  a  format  and  impression. 

Monaco,  small  and  restricted  as  it  is,  is  full 
of  surprises  and  anomalies.  It  has  a  ruling 
monarch,  a  palace,  an  army,  —  of  sixty  odd, 
all  told,  —  a  bishop  and  a  cathedral  all  its  very 
own,  though  the  Principality  is  but  three  and 
a  half  kilometres  in  length  and  slightly  more 
than  a  kilometre  in  width,  its  only  rival  for 
minuteness  being  the  former  province  of  Heli- 
goland. 

The  reigning  prince  has  a  military  staff  com- 
posed of  two  aides-de-camp,  an  ordnance  officer, 
and  a  chief  of  staff.  He  has  also  a  grand  and 
honorary  almoner,  a  chaplain  and  a  chamber- 
lain, several  state  secretaries,  a  librarian,  and 
an  archivist,  —  besides  another  staff  devoted  to 
his  oceanographical  hobby.  There  are,  of 
course,  many  other  functionaries,  like  those  one 
reads  of  in  swashbuckler  novels,  and  the  list 
closes  with  an  "  Architect-Conservator  of  the 
Palaces  of  His  Serene  Highness." 


388  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

After  the  prince  comes  the  Principality,  and 
it,  too,  has  a  long  list  of  guardians  and  office- 
holders. There  is  a  governor-general,  who 
is  usually  a  titled  person,  a  treasurer,  and,  of 
course,  an  auditor,  and  there  is  a  registrar  of 
the  tobacco  traffic  and  a  registrar  of  the  match 
trade,  two  monopolies  by  which  all  well-regu- 
lated Latin  governments  set  much  store. 

Finally  there  is  the  municipal  governmental 
organization,  with  the  regulation  coterie  of  lit- 
tle-worked office-holders.  They  may  have  their 
bosses  and  their  games  of  "  graft  "  here,  or 
they  may  not,  but  they  are  sure  to  have  a  never- 
ending  supply  of  red  tape  if  you  want  to  cut 
a  gateway  through  your  garden  wall  or  sweep 
your  chimney  down. 

There  is  also  an  official  newspaper  known 
as  Le  Journal  de  Monaco. 

The  church  is  better  represented  here  than 
in  most  communities  of  its  size.  A  monseigneur 
is  chaplain  to  the  prince,  and  Monaco,  through 
the  consideration  of  Leo  XIIL,  in  1887,  is  the 
proud  possessor  of  its  own  cathedral  church 
and  its  dignitary. 

To  arrive  on  the  terraces  of  Monte  Carlo 
at  twilight,  on  a  spring-time  or  autumn  eve- 
ning, is  one  of  the  great  episodes  in  one's  life. 
You  are  surrounded  by  an  atmosphere  which 


Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  389 


is  balsamic  and  perfumed  as  one  imagines  the 
Garden  of  Eden  might  have  been.  All  the  arti- 
ficiality of  the  place  is  lost  in  the  softening 
shadows,  and  all  is  as  like  unto  fairy-land  as 
one  will  be  likely  to  find  on  this  earth.  The 
lovely  gardens,  the  gracious  architecture,  the 
myriads  of  lights  just  twinkling  into  existence, 
the  hum  of  life,  the  moaning  and  plashing  of 
the  waves  on  the  rocky  shores  beneath,  and, 
above,  a  canopy  of  palms  lifting  their  heads 
to  the  sky,  all  unite  to  produce  this  unpar- 
alleled charm. 

When  one  considers  that  fifty  years  ago  the 
Monte  Carlo  rock  was  as  bald  and  bare  as  Mont 
Blanc  or  Pike's  Peak,  it  speaks  wonders  for 
art,  or  artificiality,  or  whatever  one  chooses 
to  call  it,  that  it  could  have  been  made  to  blos- 
som thus. 

On  a  fine  morning  the  effect,  too,  is  equally 
entrancing,  — "  Onze  heure,  c'est  I'heure  ex- 
quise."  The  miracle  of  brilliancy  of  sea  and 
sky  is  nowhere  excelled  in  the  known  world, 
and,  if  the  raucous  sounds  of  the  railway  and 
the  electric  tram  do  break  the  harmony  some- 
what, there  is  still  left  the  admirable  works 
of  the  hand  of  nature  and  man,  who  have  here 
planned  together  to  give  an  ensemble  which, 


390  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

in  its  appealing  loveliness,  far  outweighs  the 
discord  of  mundane  things. 

One  is  astonished  at  it  all,  and,  whether  he 
approves  or  disaproves  of  the  morality  of 
Monte  Carlo,  he  is  bound  to  endorse  the  opin- 
ion that  its  loveliness  and  luxury  is  superla- 
tive. 

The  Principality  of  Monaco,  like  those  other 
petty  states,  Andorra  and  San  Marino,  comes 
very  near  to  being  a  burlesque  of  the  greater 
powers  that  surround  it.  It  is  not  France; 
it  is  not  Italy;  it  is  a  power  all  by  itself;  the 
most  diminutive  among  the  monarchies  of  the 
world,  but,  all  things  considered,  one  of  the 
wealthiest  and  best  kept  of  all  the  states  of 
Europe.  Monaco,  the  town,  has  a  population 
of  over  eight  thousand  per  square  kilometre, 
while  its  nearest  rival  among  the  states  of 
Europe,  for  density  of  population,  is  Belgium, 
of  a  population  of  but  two  hundred  to  the 
same  area. 

From  the  heights  above  Monte  Carlo  one 
sees  a  map  of  it  all  spread  out  before  him  in 
relief,  the  three  towns,  Monte  Carlo,  Conda- 
mine,  and  Monaco,  with  their  total  of  fifteen 
thousand  souls  and  the  most  marvellous  setting 
which  was  ever  given  man's  habitation  outside 
of  Edem 


/Monaco 
A\ontz  Carlo 


3  ^cA^anuf 


Overlooking  Monaco  and  Monte  Carlo 


Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  391 

The  capital  sits  proudly  on  its  sea-jutting 
promontory,  with  Condamine,  its  port,  where 
the  neck  joins  the  mainland,  and  Monte  Carlo, 
the  faubourg  of  pleasure,  immediately  adjoin- 
ing on  the  right.  All  is  white,  green,  and  blue, 
and  of  the  most  brilliant  tone  throughout. 

Monaco  was  a  microcosm  in  size  even  when 
Eoquebrune  and  Menton  made  a  part  of  its 
domain,  and  to-day  it  is  much  less  in  area.  It 
was  in  the  dark  days  of  the  French  Eevolution 
that  the  little  principality  was  rent  in  frag- 
ments, and  there  were  left  only  the  rock  and 
its  two  dependencies  for  the  present  Albert 
de  Goyon-Matignon,  the  descendant  of  the 
Marechal  de  Matignon,  to  rule  over.  It  was 
this  Marechal  de  Matignon,  then  Due  de  Valen- 
tinois,  who  espoused  the  heiress  of  the  glorious 
house  of  Grimaldi,  thus  bringing  the  Grimaldi 
into  alliance  with  the  present  power  of  this 
kingdom-in-little. 

What  a  kingdom  it  is,  to  be  sure!  What  a 
highly  organized  monarchy !  There  is  a  council 
of  state;  a  tribunal,  with  its  judges  and  advo- 
cates; a  captain  of  the  port;  a  registry  for 
loans  and  mortgages;  an  inspector  of  public 
works,  etc.,  etc.;  and  all  the  functionaries  are 
as  awe-inspiring  and  terrible  as  such  officers 
usually  are.     Even  the  "  Commandant  de  la 


392  Rambles  on  the  Eiviera 

Garde,"  to  give  him  his  real  title,  is  a  sort  of 
minister  of  war,  and  he  is,  too,  a  retired  French 
officer  of  high  rank. 

The  Frenchman  when  he  crosses  the  frontier 
into  Monaco  literally  journeys  abroad.  The 
frontier  patrol  is  a  gorgeous  sort  of  an  indi- 
vidual by  himself,  a  sort  of  a  cross  between  the 
gardien  de  la  paix  of  France  and  the  Italian 
customs  officer  who  comes  into  the  carriages  of 
the  personally  conducted  tourists  to  Italy 
searching  for  contraband  matches  and  salt,  — 
as  if  any  civilized  person  would  attempt  to 
smuggle  these   unwholesome  things   anyway. 

As  one  enters  the  Principality,  by  the  road 
coming  from  Nice,  he  passes  between  the  rock 
and  the  steep  hillsides  by  the  Boulevard 
Charles  III.,  and,  turning  to  the  right,  enters 
the  town  where  is  the  seat  of  government. 

The  town  has  some  three  thousand  odd  in- 
habitants, which  is  a  good  many  for  the  "  mi- 
gnonne  cite,"  of  which  one  makes  the  round  in 
ten  minutes.  But  what  a  round !  A  promenade 
without  a  rival  in  the  world !  Well-kept  houses, 
villas,  and  palaces  at  every  turn,  with  a  fringe 
of  rocky  escarpment,  and  here  and  there  a  plot 
of  luxuriant  soil  which  gives  a  foothold  to  the 
fig-trees  of  Barbary,  aloes,  olive  and  orange 


Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  393 

trees,  giant  geraniums,  lauriers-roses  and  all 
the  flora  of  a  subtropical  climate. 

The  inhabitant  of  the  Principality  of  Monaco 
is  fortunate  in  more  ways  than  one;  he  is  not 
taxed  by  the  impot,  and  he  does  not  contribute 
a  sou  to  the  civil  list  of  the  prince.  "  The 
game  "  pays  all  this,  and,  since  its  profits 
mostly  come  from  those  who  can  afford  to  pay, 
who  shall  not  say  that  it  is  a  blessing  rather 
than  a  curse.  Another  thing:  the  Mone- 
gasques,  the  descendants  of  the  original  na- 
tives, are  all  "  gentilshommes,"  by  reason  of 
the  ennobling  of  their  ancestors  by  Charles 
Quint. 

By  a  sinuous  route  one  descends  from  Mo- 
naco to  La  Condamine,  the  most  populous  cen- 
tre in  the  Principality,  built  between  the  rock 
of  Monaco  and  the  hill  of  Monte  Carlo.  Five 
hundred  metres  farther  on,  but  upward,  and 
one  is  on  the  plateau  of  Spelugues,  a  name  now 
changed  to  Monte  Carlo. 

It  is  with  a  certain  hypocrisy,  of  course,  that 
the  frequenters  of  Monte  Carlo  rave  about  its 
charms  and  its  resemblance  to  Florence  or  to 
Athens ;  they  come  there  for  the  game  and  the 
social  distractions  which  it  offers,  and  that's 
all  there  is  about  it.  It  is  all  very  fascinating 
nevertheless. 


394  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

All  the  splendour  of  Monte  Carlo,  and  it  is 
splendid  in  all  its  appointments  without  a 
doubt,  is  but  a  mask  for  the  comings  and  go- 
ings of  the  gambler's  hopes  and  those  who  live 
off  of  his  passion. 

A  true  philosopher  will  not  cavil  at  this ;  the 
sea  is  the  most  delightful  blue ;  the  background 
one  of  the  most  entrancing  to  be  seen  in  a 
world's  tour;  and  all  the  necessaries  and  re- 
finements of  life  are  here  in  the  most  super- 
lative degree.  Who  would,  or  could,  moralize 
under  such  conditions?  It's  enough  to  bring 
a  smile  of  contentment  to  the  countenance  of 
the  most  confirmed  and  blase  dyspeptic  who 
ever  lived. 

But  is  it  needful  to  avow  that  one  quits  all 
the  luxury  of  Monte  Carlo  with  a  certain  sigh 
of  relief?  All  this  splendour  finally  palls,  and 
one  seeks  the  byways  again  with  genuine  pleas- 
ure, or,  if  not  the  byways,  the  highways,  and, 
as  the  road  leads  him  onward  to  Menton  and 
the  Italian  frontier,  he  finds  he  is  still  sur- 
rounded by  a  succession  of  the  same  landscape 
charms  which  he  has  hitherto  known.  There- 
fore it  is  not  altogether  with  regret  that  he 
leaves  the  Principality  by  the  back  door  and 
makes  a  mental  note  that  Menton  will  be  his 
next  stopping-place. 


Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  395 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  few  of  the  mad  throng 
of  Monte  Carlo  pleasure-seekers  ever  visit  the 
little  parish  chapel  of  Sainte  Devote,  though 
it  is  scarce  a  stone's  throw  off  the  Boulevard 
de  la  Condamine,  and  in  full  view  of  the  rail- 
way carriage  windows  coming  east  or  west. 
The  chapel  is  an  ordinary  enough  architectural 
monument,  but  the  legend  connected  with  its 
foundation  should  make  it  a  most  appealing 
place  of  pilgrimage  for  all  who  are  fond  of 
visiting  religious  or  historic  shrines.  One  can 
visit  it  in  the  hour  usually  devoted  to  lunch, 
—  between  games,  so  to  say,  —  if  one  really 
thinks  he  is  in  the  proper  mood  for  it  under 
such  circumstances. 

Sainte  Devote  was  born  in  Corsica,  under  the 
reign  of  Diocletian,  and  became  a  martyr  for 
her  faith.  She  was  burned  alive,  and  her  re- 
mains were  taken  by  a  faithful  churchman  on 
board  a  frail  bark  and  headed  for  the  main- 
land coast.  A  tempest  threw  the  craft  out  of 
its  course,  but  an  unseen  voice  commanded  the 
priest  to  follow  the  flight  of  a  dove  which 
winged  its  way  before  them.  They  came  to 
shore  near  where  the  present  chapel  stands. 
The  relics  of  the  saint  were  greatly  venerated 
by  the  people  of  the  surrounding  country,  who 
lavished  great  gifts  upon  the  shrine.    The  cor- 


396  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

sair  Antinope  sought  to  rob  the  chapel  of  its 
t  res  or,  in  1070,  but  was  prevented  by  the  faith- 
ful worshippers. 

Each  year,  on  January  27th,  the  fete-day  of 
the  saint,  a  procession  and  rejoicing  are  held, 
amid  a  throng  of  pilgrims  from  all  parts,  and 
a  bark  is  pushed  off  from  the  sands  at  the 
water's  edge,  all  alight,  as  a  symbol  of  protes- 
tation against  the  attempted  piratical  seizure 
of  the  statue  and  its  tresor.  For  many  cen- 
turies the  Fete  de  Sainte  Devote  was  presided 
over  bv  the  Abbe  de  St.  Pons.  To-day  the 
Bishop  of  Monaco,  croisered  and  mitred,  plays 
his  part  in  this  great  symbolical  procession. 
It  is  a  characteristic  detail,  in  honour  of  the 
efforts  of  the  sailor-folk  of  olden  days  in  re- 
buffing the  pirate  who  would  have  pillaged  the 
shrine,  that  the  bishop  subordinates  himself 
and  gives  the  head  of  the  procession  to  the 
representatives  of  the  people.  Altogether  it 
is  a  ceremony  of  great  interest  and  well  worthy 
of  more  outside  enthusiasm  than  it  usually  com- 
mands. The  princely  flag  flies  from  Monaco's 
Palais  on  these  occasions,  whether  the  ruler 
be  in  residence  or  not.  At  other  times  it  is 
only  flown  to  signify  the  presence  of  the  prince. 

With  all  its  artificiality,  with  all  its  splen- 
dour of  nature  and  the  works  of  man,  and  with 


b 

t       f%tt\-n.-t'Sit.VQt? 


59  McAlanuf 


The  Ravine  of  Saint  Devote,  Monte  Carlo 


Old  Monaco  and  New  Monte  Carlo  397 

all  the  historic  associations  of  its  past,  one  can 
but  take  a  mingled  glad  and  sad  adieu  of 
Monaco  and  Mont  Charles.  "  Monaco  est  Men 
le  reve  le  plus  fantastique,  devenue  la  plus 
resplendissante  des  realites!  " 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

MENTON   AND   THE   FRONTIER 

Menton  is  more  tranquil  than  Nice  or 
Cannes,  and,  in  many  ways,  more  adorable; 
but  it  is  a  sort  of  hospital  and  is  not  condu- 
cive to  gaiety  to  the  extent  that  it  would  be 
were  there  an  utter  absence  of  Bath  chairs, 
pharmacies,  and  shops  devoted  to  the  sale  of 
nostrums  and  invalid  foods.  There  is  none  of 
the  feverish  existence  of  the  other  cities  of  the 
Riviera  here,  and,  in  a  way,  this  is  a  detraction, 
for  it  is  not  the  unspoiled  countryside,  either, 
but  bears  all  the  marks  of  the  advent  of  an 
indulgent  civilization.  One  might  think  that 
one's  very  existence  in  such  a  delightful  spot 
might  be  a  panacea  for  most  of  flesh's  ills,  but 
apparently  this  is  not  so,  at  least  the  doctors 
will  not  allow  their  "  patients  "  to  think  so. 

Menton's  port  is  quite  extensive  and  is  well 
sheltered  from  the  pounding  waves  which  here 
roll  up  from  the  Ligurian  sea,  at  times  in  truly 
tempestuous  fashion.  To  the  rear  the  Mari- 
time Alps  slope  abruptly  down  to  the  sea,  with 

398 


Menton  and  the  Frontier         399 


scarce  a  warning  before  their  plunge  into  the 
Mediterranean.  All  this  confines  Menton 
within  a  very  small  area,  and  there  is  little 
or  no  suburban  background.  In  a  way  this 
is  an  advantage;  it  most  certainly  tends 
toward  a  mildness  of  the  winter  climate;  but 
on  the  other  hand  there  is  lacking  a  sense  of 
freedom  and  grandeur  when  one  takes  his  walk 
abroad. 

Just  before  reaching  Menton  is  the  garden- 
spot  of  Cap  Martin,  once  a  densely  wooded 
"  petite  foret,"  but  now  threaded  with  broad 
avenues  cut  through  the  ranks  of  the  great 
trees  and  producing  a  wonderland  of  scenic 
vistas,  which,  if  they  lack  the  virginity  of  the 
wild-wood  as  it  once  was,  are  truly  delightful 
and  fairylike  in  their  disposition.  Great  hotels 
and  villas  have  come,  for  the  Emperor  of  Aus- 
tria and  the  ex-Empress  Eugenie  were  early 
smitten  by  the  charms  of  the  marvellously  sit- 
uated promontory,  making  of  it  a  Mediterra- 
nean retreat  at  once  exclusive  and  unique. 

The  panorama  eastward  and  westward  from 
this  green  cape  is  of  a  varied  brilliancy  unex- 
celled elsewhere  along  the  Riviera.  On  one 
side  is  Monaco's  rock,  Monte  *Carlo,  and  the 
enchanting  banks  of  "  Petite  Afrique,"  and  on 


400  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

the  other  the  white  walls  and  red  roofs  of 
Menton. 

Between  Cap  Martin  and  Menton  the  road 
skirts  the  very  water's  edge,  crossing  the  Val 
de  Gorbio  and  entering  the  town  via  Carnoles, 
where  the  Princes  of  Monaco  formerly  had  a 
palace.  Modern  Menton  is  like  all  the  rest  of 
the  modern  Riviera;  its  streets  bordered  with 
luxurious  dwellings  and  hotels,  up-to-date  shop- 
fronts,  and  all  the  appointments  of  the  age. 
At  the  entrance  to  the  city  is  a  monument  com- 
memorative of  the  voluntary  union  of  Menton 
and  Roquebrune  with  France. 

Menton  is  a  strange  mixture  of  the  old  and 
the  new.  There  are  no  indications  of  a  Roman 
occupation  here,  though  some  geographers  have 
traced  its  origin  back  through  the  night  of  time 
to  the  ancient  Lumone.  More  likely  it  was 
founded  by  piratical  hordes  from  the  African 
coast,  who,  it  is  known,  established  a  settle- 
ment here  in  the  eighth  century.  Furthermore, 
the  "  Maritime  Itinerary  "  of  the  conquering 
Romans  makes  no  mention  of  any  landing  or 
harbour  between  Vintimille  and  Monaco,  thus 
ignoring  Menton  entirely,  even  if  they  ever 
knew  of  it. 

The  town  is  superbly  situated  in  the  form 
of  an  amphitheatre  between  two  tiny  bays,  and 


Menton  and  the  Frontier         401 

the  country  around  is  well  watered  by  the  tor- 
rents which  flow  down  from  the  highland  back- 
ground. 

After  having  been  a  pirate  stronghold,  the 
town  became  a  part  of  the  Comte  of  Vintimille, 
after  the  expulsion  of  the  Saracens,  and  later 
had  for  its  seigneurs  a  Genoese  family  by  the 
name  of  Vento.  In  the  fourteenth  century  it 
fell  to  the  Grimaldi,  and  to  this  day  its  aspect, 
except  for  the  rather  banal  hotel  and  villa 
architecture,  has  remained  more  Italian  in  mo- 
tive than  French. 

Menton  is  not  wholly  an  idling  community 
like  Monte  Carlo  and  Monaco.  It  has  a  very 
considerable  commerce  in  lemons,  four  millions 
annually  of  the  fruit  being  sent  out  of  the 
country.  The  industry  has  given  rise  to  a 
species  of  labour  by  women  which  is  a  striking 
characteristic  in  these  parts.  Like  the  women 
who  unload  the  Palermo  and  Seville  orange 
boats  at  Marseilles,  the  "  porte'iris  "  of  Men- 
ton  are  most  picturesque.  They  carry  their 
burdens  always  on  the  head,  and  one  marvels 
at  the  skill  with  which  they  carry  their  loads 
in  most  awkward  places.  The  work  is  hard, 
of  course,  but  it  does  not  seem  to  have  devel- 
oped any  weaknesses  or  maladies  unknown  to 
other  peasant  or  labouring  folk,  hence  there 


402  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

seems  no  reason  why  it  should  not  continue. 
Certainly  the  Mentonnaises  have  a  certain 
grace  of  carriage  and  suppleness  in  their  walk 
which  the  dames  of  fashion  might  well  imi- 
tate. 

The  fishing  quarter  of  Menton  is  one  of  the 
most  picturesque  on  the  whole  Eiviera,  with 
its  rues-escaliers,  its  vaulted  houses,  and  the 
walls  and  escarpments  of  the  old  military  forti- 
fication coming  to  light  here  and  there.  It  is 
nothing  like  Martigues,  in  the  Bouches-du- 
Rhone,  really  the  most  picturesque  fishing-port 
in  the  world,  nor  is  it  a  whit  more  interesting 
than  the  old  Catalan  quarter  of  Marseilles ;  but 
it  is  far  more  varied,  with  the  life  of  those  who 
conduct  the  petty  affairs  of  the  sea,  than  any 
other  of  the  Mediterranean  resorts. 

Menton  is  something  like  Hyeres,  a  place  of 
villas  quite  as  much  as  of  hotels,  though  the 
latter  are  of  that  splendid  order  of  things  that 
spell  modern  comfort,  but  which  are  really 
most  undesirable  to  live  in  for  more  than  a 
few  days  at  a  time. 

Not  every  one  goes  to  the  Riviera  to  live  in 
a  villa,  but  those  who  do  cannot  do  better  than 
to  hunt  one  out  at  Menton.  Menton  is  almost 
on  the  frontier  of  Italy  and  France,  and  that 
has  an  element  of  novelty  in  every-day  hap- 


Menton  and  the  Frontier         403 

penings  which  would  amuse  an  exceedingly 
dull  person,  and,  if  that  were  not  enough,  there 
is  Monte  Carlo  itself,  less  than  a  dozen  kilo- 
metres away. 

When  one  thinks  of  it,  a  villa  set  on  some 
rocky  shelf  on  a  wooded  hillside  overlooking 
the  Mediterranean,  with  an  orange-garden  at 
the  back,  —  as  they  all  seem  to  have  here  at 
Menton,  —  is  not  so  bad,  and  offers  many  ad- 
vantages over  hotel  life,  particularly  as  the 
cost  need  be  no  more.  You  may  hire  a  villa 
for  anything  above  a  thousand  francs  a  season, 
and  it  will  be  completely  furnished.  You  will 
get,  perhaps,  five  rooms  and  a  cellar,  which  you 
fill  with  wood  and  wine  to  while  away  the  long 
winter  evenings,  for  they  can  be  chill  and  drear, 
even  here,  from  December  to  March. 

Before  you  is  a  panorama  extending  from 
Cap  Martin  to  Mortala-Bordighera,  another 
palm-set  haven  on  the  Italian  Riviera,  which 
once  was  bare  of  the  conventions  of  fashion, 
but  which  has  now  become  as  fashionable  as 
Nice. 

You  can  hire  a  servant  to  preside  over  the 
pots  and  pans  for  the  absurdly  small  sum  of 
fifty  francs  a  month,  and  she  will  cook,  and 
shop,  and  fetch  and  carry  all  day  long,  and  will 
keep  other  robbers  from  molesting  you,  if  you 


404  Rambles  on  the  Riviera 

will  only  wink  at  her  making  a  little  commis- 
sion on  her  marketing. 

She  will  work  cheerfully  and  never  grumble 
if  you  entertain  a  flock  of  unexpected  tourist 
friends  who  have  "  just  dropped  in  from  the 
Italian  Lakes,  Switzerland,  or  Cairo,"  and  will 
dress  neatly  and  picturesquely,  and  cook  fish 
and  chickens  in  a  heavenly  fashion. 

To  the  eastward,  toward  Italy,  the  post-road 
of  other  days  passes  through  the  sumptuous 
faubourg  of  Garavan  and  continues  to  Pont 
Saint  Louis,  over  the  ravine  of  the  same  name. 
Here  is  the  frontier  station  (by  road)  where 
one  leaves  gendarmes  behind  and  has  his  first 
encounter  with  the  carabiniers  of  Italy. 

Anciently,  as  history  tells,  the  two  neigh- 
bouring peoples  were  one,  and  even  now,  in 
spite  of  the  change  in  the  course  of  events, 
there  is  none  of  that  enmity  between  the  French 
and  Italian  frontier  guardians  that  is  to  be  seen 
on  the  great  highroad  from  Paris  to  Metz,  via 
Mars  la  Tour,  where  the  automobilist,  if  he  is 
a  Frenchman,  is  lucky  if  he  gets  through  at  all 
without  a  most  elaborate  passport. 

The  traveller  from  the  north,  by  the  Rhone 
valley,  has  come,  almost  imperceptibly,  into 
the  midst  of  a  Ligurian  population,  very  dif- 


Menton  and  the  Frontier         405 

ferent  indeed  from  the  inhabitants  of  the  great 
watershed. 

At  Pont  Saint  Louis  one  first  salutes  Italy, 
coming  down  through  France,  having  left  Paris 
by  the  "  Route  de  Lyon,"  and  thence  by  the 
"  Route  d'Antibes,"  and  finally  into  the  pro- 
longation known  as  the  "  Route  d 'Italic"  It 
is  a  long  trip,  but  not  a  hard  one,  and  for  vari- 
ety and  excellence  its  like  is  not  to  be  found 
in  any  other  land. 

The  roads  of  France,  like  many  another  leg- 
acy left  by  the  Romans,  are  one  of  the  nation's 
proudest  possessions,  and  their  general  well- 
kept  appearance,  and  the  excellence  of  their 
grading  makes  them  appeal  to  automobilists 
above  all  others.  There  may  be  excellent  short 
stretches  elsewhere,  but  there  are  none  so  per- 
fect, nor  so  long,  nor  so  charming  as  the  mod- 
ern successor  of  the  old  Roman  roadway  into 
Gaul. 

The  Pont  Saint  Louis  was  built  in  1806,  and 
crosses  at  a  great  height  the  river  lying  at  the 
bottom  of  the  ravine.  Once  absolutely  uncon- 
trollable, this  little  stream  has  been  diked,  and 
now  waters  and  fertilizes  many  neighbouring 
gardens. 

By  a  considerable  effort  one  may  gain  the 


406 


Rambles  on  the  Riviera 


height  above,  known  as  the  "  Kochers  Rouges, " 
and  see  before  him  not  only  the  sharp-cut  rocky 
coast  of  the  French  Riviera,  but  far  away  into 
Italy  as  well. 

All  this  brings  up  the  Frenchman's  dream 
of  the  time  when  France,  Italy,  and  Spain  shall 


Pont  Saint  Louis 


become  one,  so  far  as  the  control  of  the  Medi- 
terranean lake  is  concerned,  and  shall  thus  pre- 
vent Europe  from  returning  to  the  barbarian- 
ism  to  which  the  "  egdisme  britannique  et  I'avi- 
dite  allemande  "  is  fast  leading  it. 

Whether  this  change  will    ever  come    about 
is  as  questionable  as  the  preciseness  of  the  ac- 


Menton  and  the  Frontier         407 

cusation,  but  there  is  certainly  some  reason  for 
the  suggestion.  Another  decade  may  change 
the  map  of  Europe  considerably.  Who 
knows  ? 


THE   END. 


APPENDICES 


I. 


THE   PROVINCES   OF   FRANCE 

Up  to  1789,  there  were  thirty-three  great  governments 
making  up  modern  France,  the  twelve  governments  created 
by  Francis  I.  being  the  chief,  and  seven  petits  gouvernements 
as  well. 


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409 


410 


Appendices 


In  the  following  table  the  grands  gouvernements  of  the  first 
foundation  are  indicated  in  heavy-faced  type,  those  which 
were  taken  from  the  first  in  italics,  and  those  which  were 
acquired  by  conquest  in  ordinary  characters. 


NAMES  OF  GOVERNMENTS 

CAPITALS 

1.  Ile-de-France     . 

Paris. 

2.  Picardie     . 

Amiens. 

3.  Normandie 

Rouen. 

4.  Bretagne 

Rennes. 

5.  Champagne  et  Brie 

Troyes. 

6.  Orleanais  . 

Orleans. 

7.  Maine  et  Perche 

Le  Mans. 

8.  Anjou 

Angers. 

9.    Touraine  .         .        . 

Tours. 

10.  Nivernais  .        .        . 

Nevers. 

11.  Berri          .        .        , 

.     Bourges. 

12.  Poitou 

Poitiers. 

13.  Aunis 

La  Rochelle 

14.  Bourgogne  (duche-  de; 

Dijon. 

15.  Lyonnais,  Forez  et  B 

eaujolais  ....    Lyon. 

16.  Auvergne  . 

Clermont. 

17.  Bourbonnais 

Moulins. 

18.  Marche 

Gu^ret. 

19.   Guyenne  et  Gascogn 

e Bordeaux. 

20.  Saintonge  et  Angoum 

ois1          .        .        .        .     Saintes. 

21.  Limousin   . 

Limoges. 

22.    Biarn  et  Basse  Nava 

rre Pau. 

23.  Languedoc 

Toulouse. 

24.  Comti  de  Foix  . 

,        .        .    Foix. 

25.  Provence    . 

Aix. 

20.  Dauphine  . 

Grenoble. 

27.  Flandre  et  Hainaut 

Lille. 

28.  Artois 

Arras. 

29.  Lorraine  et  Barrois 

Nancy. 

30.  Alsace 

Strasbourg. 

31.  Franche-Comte  ou  C< 

mite  de  Bourgogne  .        .    Besancon. 

32.  Roussilon  . 

Perpignan. 

33.  Corse 

Bastia. 

•Under  Francis  I.  the  Angoumoia  was  comprised  in  the  Orleanais. 


Appendices 


411 


The  seven  petits  gouvernements  were : 

1.  The  ville,  predate-  and  vicomte"  of  Paris. 

2.  Havre  de  Grace. 

3.  Boulonnais. 

4.  Principality  of  Sedan. 

5.  Metz  and  Verdun,  the  pays  Messin  and  Verdunois. 

6.  Toul  and  Toulois. 

7.  Saumur  and  Saumurois. 


n. 


THE  ANCIENT  PROVINCES  OF  FRANCE 


412  Appendices 


III. 


GAZETTEER  AND   HOTEL   LIST 

Being  a  brief  resume"   of  the  attractions  of  some  of  the 
chief  centres  of  Provence  and  the  Riviera. 

ABBREVIATIONS 

C.  Chef-Lieu  of  Commune. 

P.  Prefecture. 

S.  P.  Sous-PrSfecture. 

h.  Habitants  (population). 

*  Hotels  at  nine  francs  or  less  per  day. 

**  Hotels  nine  to  twelve  francs  per  day. 

***  Hotels  above  twelve  francs  per  day. 

AIX- EN -PROVENCE 
Bouches-du-Rhdne.     S.  P.     19,398  h. 
Hotels  :  Negre-Coste,**  De  la  Mule  Noire,*  De  France.* 
The    ancient  capital  of  Provencal  arts    and  letters,  and  the 

Cours  d' Amour  of  the  troubadours. 
Sights  :  Eglise  de  la  Madeleine,  Cathedral  St.  Sauveur,  HStel  de 

Ville,  Tour  de  Toureluco,  Eglise  St.  Jean  de  Malte,  Mus^e, 

Bibliotheque,  Statue  of  Rene"  d'Anjou,  by  David  d'Augers. 

Carnival  each  year  in  February  or  March. 
Excursions  :  Ruins  of  Chateau  de  Puyricard,  Aqueduc  Roque- 

favour,  Ermitage  de  St.  Honorat,  Bastide  du  Roi  Rene",  Gar- 

danne  and  Les  Pennes. 
Distances  in  kilometres :  Marseilles,  29 ;  Aries,  80 ;  Toulon, 

75  ;  Roquevaire,  29. 

ANTIBES 
Alpes-Maritimes.     C.     6,512  h. 
Hotels  :  Grand  Hotel,***  Terminus.** 
Excursions :  Presqu'ile  and  Cap  d'Antibes,  Fort  Lavre",  Villa 

and  Jardin  Thuret,  La  Garonpe,  Chapelle,  and  Phare. 
Distances  in  kilometres:  Paris,  976;  Cannes,  12;  Grasse,  23  ; 

Nice,  23  ;  La  Turbie,  41 ;  Monte  Carlo,  44  ;  St.  Raphael,  51. 


Appendices  413 


ARLES 

S.  P.     15,506  h. 

Hotels  :  Du  Forum,**  Du  Nord.** 

Delightfully  situated  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhdne. 

Sights  :  Les  Arenes,  Roman  Ramparts,  Antique  Theatre,  Cath6- 

drale  de  St.  Trophime    and    Cloister,  Les    Alyscamps  and 

Tombs,  Mus6e  d' Arletan  and  Mus6e  de  la  Ville,  Palais  Con- 

stantin. 
Excursions  :  Les  Baux,  Montmajour,  Les  Saintes  Maries. 
Distances  in  kilometres :   Paris,  730 ;  Tarascon,  17  ;  Avignon, 

39  ;  Salon,  40  ;  Marseilles,  91 ;  Aix,  80. 

AVIGNON 

Vaucluse.    P.     33,891  h. 

The  ancient  papal  capital  in  France. 

Hotels  :  De  1' Europe,***  Du  Luxembourg.** 

Sights :  Ancient  Ramparts,  Palais  des  Papes,  Mus^e,  Pulpit  in 

Eglise  St.  Pierre,  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  des  Doms,  Ruined 

Pont  St.  Ben^zet  (Pont  d1  Avignon). 
Excursions :    Villeneuve-les-Avignon,   Fontaine    de   Vaucluse, 

Aqueduct  of  Pont  du  Gard. 
Distances  in  kilometres  :  Sorgues,  10  ;  Orange,  27  ;  Carpentras, 

24  ;  Fontaine  de  Vaucluse,  28. 

BANDOL-SUR-MER 

Var.     1,616  h. 

Winter  and  spring-time  station,  situated  on  a  lovely  bay.  Small 

port,  and  in  no  sense  a  resort  as  yet. 
Hotel :  Grand  Hotel.** 
Distances  in  kilometres  :  Marseilles,  61 ;  Toulon,  21 ;  La  Ciotat, 

23 ;  Sanary,  6. 

BE  AULIEU  -  SUR  -  MER 

Alpes-Maritimes.     1,354  h. 

Winter  station.    Beautiful  situation  on  the  coast,  with  groves  of 

pines,  olives,  etc. 
Hotels  :  De  Beaulieu,**  Empress  Hotel.*** 
Distances  in  kilometres  :  Nice,  8  ;  Monte  Carlo,  18  ;  Grasse,  46  ; 

Menton,  49.' 


414  Appendices 

CAGNES 

Alpes-Maritimes.     C.     2,040  h. 

Winter  station  and  town  "  pour  les  artistes-peintres  "  in  other 

days;    now  practically  a  suburb    of   Nice,  to  which  it  is 

bound  by  a  tram-line. 
Hotels  :  Savournin,**  De  l'Unirers.* 
Sights  :  Chateau  des  Grimaldi. 
Excursions  :  Vence,  Antibes,  Villeneuve-Loubet. 
Distances  in  kilometres  :  Nice,  12  ;  Vence,  10  ;  Antibes,  20. 

CANNES 

Alpes-Maritimes.     C.     25,350  h. 

On  the  Golfe  de  la  Napoule,  with  Nice  the  chief  centre  for 
Riviera  tourists. 

Hotels  :  Gallia,***  Suisse,**  Gonnet.*** 

Excursions  :  lies  de  Lerins,  La  Napoule,  The  Corniche  d'Or  and 
the  Esterel,  Le  Cannet,  Vallauris,  Californie,  Croix  des  Gar- 
des, Grasse,  Antibes,  Auberge  des  Adrets. 

Distances  in  kilometres  :  Grasse,  17  ;  Fre^jus,  47 ;  St.  Raphael, 
43 ;  Nice,  35  ;  Antibes,  12. 

CASSIS 

Var.    1,972  h. 

A  charming  little  Mediterranean  port ;  near  by  the  ancient  cha- 
teau of  the  Seigneurs  of  Baux. 

Hotel :  Lieutand.* 

Distances  in  kilometres  :  Marseilles,  31 ;  LaCiotat,  11 ;  Bandol, 
34. 

CIOTAT  (LA) 
Bouches-du-Rh6ne.     C.     9,895  h. 
Great  ship-building  works,  but  beautifully  situated  on  Baie  de 

la  Ciotat. 
Hotel :  De  l'Univers .** 
Distances  in  kilometres  :  Cassis,  11 ;  Marseilles,  43. 

COGOLLN 
Var.     2,102  h. 

Delightfully  situated  in  the  valley  of  the  Giscle,  at  the  head  of 
the  Golfe  de  St.  Tropez. 


Appendices  415 


Hotel :  Cauvet.* 

Sights  :  Butte  des  Moulins,  Chateau  des  Grirnaldi. 
Excursions  :  Grimaud  aud  La  Garde-Freinet. 
Distances  in  kilometres  :   St.  Tropez,    10 ;   Fre^jus,   34 ;  Nice, 
104  ;  St.  Raphael,  37  ;  Hyeres,  44 ;  Toulon,  62. 

FREJUS 

Var.     C.     3,612  h. 

Hotels:  Du  Midi.* 

Sights :  Roman  Arena  (Ruins),  Old  Ramparts,  Citadel,  Cathe- 
dral (XL  and  XII.  centuries),  and  Bishop's  Palace. 

Excursions  :  St.  Raphael  and  the  Corniche  d'Or,  Auberge  des 
Adrets  and  Route  de  l'Esterel,  Mont  Vinaigre  (616  metres). 

Distances  in  kilometres  :  Cannes,  36  ;  Nice,  78  ;  St.  Raphael,  3 ; 
Ste.  Maxime,  21. 

GRASSE 

Alpes-Maritimes.     S.  P.     9,426  h. 

More  or  less  of  a  Riviera  resort,  though  seventeen  kilometres 

from  the  coast  at  Cannes,  situated  at  an  altitude  of  333  metres. 
Hotels  :  Grand  Hotel,***  De  la  Poste.** 
Sights  :  Cathedral  (XII.  and  XIII.  centuries),  Jardin  Public,  La 

Cours,  Source  de  la  Foux,  Sommet  au  Jeu  de  Ballon. 
Excursions  :  Ste.  Cezane,  Dolmens,  Grottes,  Source  de  la  Sia- 

gnole,  Le  Bar  and  Gorges  du  Loup. 
Distances  in  kilometres  :  Cannes,  17  ;  Cagnes,  20  ;  Le  Bar,  10  ; 

Vence,  28  ;  Draguignan,  59. 

HYERES 

Var.     C.     9,949  h. 

The  oldest  and  most  southerly  of  the  French  Mediterranean 

resorts. 
Hotels  :  Grand  Hotel,***  Hdtel  des  Hesp^rides.** 
Sights  :  Eglise  St.  Louis  (XII.  century),  Chateau,  Place,  and 

Ave.  des  Palmiers,  Jardin  d' Acclimation. 
Excursions  :  Mont  des  Oiseaux,  Salines  d' Hyeres,  Giens  and  the 

lies  d'Or  (lies  d' Hyeres). 

MARSEILLES 
Bouches-du  Rhdne.     P.     396,033  h. 


416  Appendices 


The  second  city  of  France,  and  the  first  Mediterranean  port. 
Hotels :  Du  Louvre  et  de  la  Paix,***  Grand   Hotel,***  De  la 

Poste,  Du  Touring  (the  two  latter  for  rooms  only  —  2  francs 

50  centimes  and  upwards). 
Sights  :    Cannebiere,  Bourse,  Vieux  Port,  Pointe  des  Catalans, 

N.  D.  de  la  Garde,  Palais  de  Longchamps,  Chemin  de  la  Cor- 

niche,  Le  Prado,  Cathedral  Ste.  Marie  Majeure. 
Excursions  :  Chateau  d'H,  Martigues,  Sausset,  Carry,  Port  de 

Bouc,  Aubagne,  Roquevaire,  Grotte  de  la  Ste.  Baume,  Estaque. 
Distances  in  kilometres  :  Paris,  818  ;  Avignon,  97  ;  Aries,  91 ; 

Salon,  51 ;  Martigues,  40  ;  Aix,  28  ;  Toulon,  64. 

MARTIGUES 
Bouches-du-Rh6ne.     C.     4,689  h. 

"  La  Venise  Provencale,"  celebrated  for  "  bouillabaisse." 
Hotel :  Chabas* 
Sights :  Canals  and  Bourdigues,  Eglise  de  la  Madeleine,  Etang 

de  Berre. 
Excursions  :  Port  de  Bouc,  St.  Mitre  (Saracen  hill  town),  Istres, 

Fos-sur-Mer,    Chateauneuf-les-Martigues,    St.    Chamas    and 

Cap  Couronne. 

MENTON 

Alpes-Maritimes.    C.    8,917  h. 

The  most  conservative  of  all  the  popular  Riviera  resorts. 

Hotels  :  Des  Anglais,***  Grand* 

Sights :  Jardin  Public,  Promenade  du  Midi,  Tete  de  Chien. 

Excursions :  Cap  Martin,  Italian  Frontier,  Castillon,  Gorbio, 
Roquebrune. 

Distances  in  kilometres  :  Monte  Carlo,  8 ;  La  Turbie,  14  ;  Ro- 
quebrune, 4  ;  Nice,  30  ;  Grasse,  64. 

MONTE   CARLO 
Principality  of  Monaco. 

Hotels  :  Metropole,***  De  l'Europe,**  Du  Littoral.* 
Sights  :  Casino  and  Salles  de  Jeu  and  de  Fete,  Palais  des  Beaux 

Arts,  Serres  Blanc. 
Excursions  :  La  Turbie,  Mont  Agel,  Cap  Martin. 
Distances  in  kilometres:  Paris,  1,017  ;  Menton,  8  ;  Nice,  19. 


Appendices  417 


NICE 

Alpes-Maritimes.     P.    78,480  h. 

The  chief  Riviera  resort  and  headquarters. 

Hotels  :  Gallia,***  Des  Palmiers,***  Des  Deux  Mondes.** 

Sights :  Casino,  Promenade  des  Anglais,  Jardin,  Mont  Baron, 

and  Pare  du  Chateau. 
Excursions  :  Cimiez,  Villefranche,  St.  Andre,  Cap  Ferrat,  La 

Grande  Corniche,  Eze. 
Distances  in  kilometres  :  Paris,  998  ;  Cannes,  35  ;  Grasse,  38  ; 

Cagnes,  12  ;  Frejus,  66  ;  Menton,  30  ;  Monte  Carlo,  19. 

SAINT  RAPHAEL 
Var.     2,982  h. 
Hotel:  Continental.*** 
Sights :  Boulevard  du  Touring,  Lion  de  Terre,  and  Lion  de 

Mer,  Eglise,  Maison  Close  (Alphonse  Karr),  Maison  Gounod. 
Excursions  :  La  Corniche  d'Or,  Agay,  Ste.  Baume,  Cap  Roux, 

Valescure,  Anth^ore,  Theoule,  Foret  and  Route  d'Est^rel. 
Distances  in  kilometres  :  Nice,  60  ;  Cannes,  43 ;  Fr6jus,  3. 

SAINT  TROPEZ 

Tar.     C.     3,141  h. 

Hotel :  Continental.* 

Excursions :  La  Foux,  Grimaud,   Cogolin,   Ste.  Maxime,  Baie 

de  Cavalaire. 
Distances  in  kilometres :  Marseilles,   120 ;  Nice,  90 ;   Cogolin, 

10 ;  St.  Raphael,  43. 

SALON 

Bouches-du-Rh6ne.     C.     9,324  h. 

Hotel  :  Grand  Hotel.* 

Sights  :  Eglise  (XVI.  century),  Ramparts,  Tomb  of  Nostrada- 
mus. 

Excursions :  St.  Chamas,  Berre,  Pont  Flavian,  La  Crau,  Les 
Baux. 

Distances  in  kilometres  :  Marseilles,  53  ;  St.  Chamas,  16  ;  Aix, 
33 ;  Orgon,  18. 

SOLLIES-PONT 
Var.     C.     2,100  h. 


418  Appendices 


Hotel  :  Des  Voyageurs.* 

Excursions :   Valley  of    the  Gapeau  and  Forgt  des  Maures, 

Cuers,  Montrieux. 
Distances  in  kilometres  :  Marseilles,  90  ;  Toulon,  15 ;  Besse,  25  ; 

St.  Raphael,  77. 

ST.  REMY 
Bouches-du-Rh6ne.    C.     3,624  h. 
Hotel :  Grand  Hotel  de  Provence.* 
Sights  :  Fontaine  de  Nostradamus,  Temple  de  Constantin,  Mau- 

sol6e  and  Arc  de  Trioinphe. 
Excursions :  Tarascon,  Les  Alpilles,  Montmajour,  Les  Baux, 

Fontaine  de  Vaucluse,  Pont  du  Gard. 
Distances  in  kilometres  :  Aries,   20 ;  Les  Baux,  8 ;  Avignon, 

19 ;  Cavaillon,  18. 

TOULON 

Var.     S.  P.     78,833  h. 

Hotel :  Grand  Hotel,***  Victoria.** 

Sights  :  Cathedral  Ste.  Marie  Majeure  (XL  century),  Harbour, 

Hotel  de  Ville,  Maison  Puget. 
Excursions  :  Gorges  d'Ollioules,  Tamaris,  Batterie  des  Hommes 

Sans  Peur,   St.    Mandrier,  Cap  Brun,  Cap  Sicie\  La  Seyne, 

Six-Fours,  Sanary. 
Distances  in  kilometres :  Aix,  75 ;  Marseilles,  65  ;  Nice,  163 ; 

Cannes,  128. 


IV. 

THE  ROAD  MAPS  OF  FRANCE 

The  traveller  by  road  or  by  rail  in  France  should,  if 
he  would  appreciate  all  the  charms  and  attractions  of 
the  places  along  his  route,  provide  himself  with  one  or 
the  other  of  the  excellent  road  maps  which  may  be  pur- 
chased at  the  "  Libraire  "  in  any  large  town. 

Much  will  be  opened  up  to  him  which  otherwise  might 


Appendices  419 


remain  hidden,  for,  excellent  as  many  guide-books  are  in 
other  respects  (and  those  of  Joanne  in  France  lead  the 
world  for  conciseness  and  attractiveness),  they  are  all 
wofully  inadequate  as  regards  general  maps.  Really, 
one  should  supplement  his  French  guide-books  with  the 
remarkably  practical  "  Guide-Michelin,"  which  all  auto- 
mobilists  (of  all  lands)  know,  or  ought  to  know,  and 
which  is  distributed  free  to  them  by  Michelin  et  Cie.,  of 
Clermont-Ferrand.  Others  must  exercise  considerable 
ingenuity  if  they  wish  to  possess  one  of  these  condensed 
guides,  with  its  scores  and  scores  of  maps  and  plans. 
The  Continental  Gutta  Percha  Company  does  the  thing 
even  more  elaborately,  but  its  volume  is  not  so  compact. 

Both  books,  in  addition  to  their  numerous  maps  and 
plans,  give  much  information  as  to  roads  and  routes 
which  others  as  well  as  automobilists  will  find  most 
interesting  reading,  besides  which  will  be  found  a  list  of 
hotels,  the  statement  as  to  whether  or  not  they  are  affil- 
iated with  the  Automobile  Club  de  France,  or  The  Tour- 
ing Club  de  France,  and  a  general  outline  of  the  price  of 
their  accommodation,  and  what,  in  many  cases,  is  of  far 
more  importance,  the  kind  of  accommodation  which  they 
offer.  It  is  worth  something  to  modern  travellers  to 
know  whether  a  hotel  which  he  intends  to  favour  with  his 
gracious  presence  has  a  "  Salle  de  Bains,"  a  "Chambre 
Noire,"  or  "  Chambres  Hygieniques,  genre  du  Touring 
Club."  To  the  traveller  of  a  generation  ago  this  meant 
nothing,  but  it  means  a  good  deal  to  the  present  age. 

As  for  general  maps  of  France,  the  Carte  de  l'Etat- 
Major  (scale  of  80,000,  on  which  one  measures  distances 
of  two  kilometres  by  the  diametre  of  a  sou)  are  to  be 
bought  everywhere  at  thirty  centimes  per  quarter-sheet. 
The  Carte  du  Service  Vicinal,  on  the  scale  of  100,000 


420 


Appendices 


and  printed  in  five  colours,  costs  eighty  centimes  per 
sheet;  and  that  of  the  Service  Greographique  de  l'Arm£e 
(reduced  by  lithography  from  the  scale  of  80,000)  costs 
one  franc  fifty  centimes  per  sheet. 

There  is  also  the  newly  issued  Carte  Touriste  de  la 
France  of  the  Touring  Club  de  France  (on  a  scale  of 
400,000),  printed  in  six  colours  and  complete  in  fifteen 
sheets  at  two  francs  fifty  centimes  per  sheet. 


Gnsem6fe  C&rte   cCe  tpourzrzo 

C/U6  cCe  &?aj?ce 


1.  Cherbourg. 
1.  Lille. 

3.  Bruxelles. 

4.  Rennes. 

5.  Paris. 

6.  Nancy. 

7.  Nantes. 

8.  Bourges. 

9.  Dijoo 

10.  Bordeaux. 

11.  Clermont. 

12.  Lyon. 

13.  Bayonne. 

14.  Toulouse. 

15.  Marseille. 


Finally  there  is  the  very  beautiful  Carte  de  l'Est6rel, 
of  special  interest  to  Riviera  tourists,  also  issued  by  the 
Touring  Club  de  France. 

The  Cartes  "  Taride"  are  a  remarkable  and  useful 
series,  covering  France  in  twenty-five  sheets,  at  a  franc 
per  sheet.  They  are  on  a  very  large  scale  and  are  well 
printed  in  three  colours,  showing  all  rivers,  railways,  and 
nearly  every  class  of  road  or  path,  together  with  distances 
in  kilometres  plainly  marked.  They  are  quite  the  most 
useful  and  economical  maps  of  France  for  the  automo- 
bilist,  cyclist,  and  even  the  traveller  by  rail. 


Appendices 


421 


The  house  of  De  Dion-Bouton  also  issues  an  attractive 
map  on  a  scale  of  800,000  and  printed  in  four  colours. 


CARTE   ROUTIERE 

DE 

FRANCE 

tchellt  dulSMOOO 
Tablciu  d'Asscmblage . 


M    A    M    C    H   C 


E     8     P     A     0     If    E  - '    •\--v.-'~ 


RUXUUV  -IB,-* 
SSjf 


(oMai    v 
*<*"  vJ,orraine 


The  "  Taride  "  Maps 


The  four  sheets  are  sold  at  eight  francs  per  sheet,  but 
they  are  better  suited  for  wall  maps  than  for  portable 
practicability. 


422  Appendices 


V. 

A  TRAVEL  TALK 

The  travel  routes  to  and  through  Provence  and  the 
Eiviera  are  in  no  way  involved,  and  on  the  whole  are 
rather  more  pleasantly  disposed  than  in  many  parts,  in 
that  places  of  interest  are  not  widely  separated. 

The  railroad  is  the  hurried  traveller's  best  aid,  and  the 
all-powerful  and  really  progressive  P.  L.  M.  Eailway  of 
France  covers,  with  its  main  lines  and  ramifications,  quite 
all  of  Provence,  the  Midi,  and  the  Eiviera. 

Marseilles  is  perhaps  the  best  gateway  for  the  Eiviera 
proper  and  the  coast  towns  westward  to  the  Ehone,  and 
Avignon  or  Aries  for  the  interior  cities  of  Provence. 
Paris  is  in  close  and  quick  connection  with  both  Aries 
and  Marseilles  by  train  express,  train  rapide,  or  the 
more  leisurely  train  omnibus,  with  fares  varying  accord- 
ingly, and  taking  from  ten  to  twenty  hours  en  route, 
there  being  astonishing  differences  in  time  between  the 
trains  ordinaires  and  the  trains  rapides  all  over  France. 
Fares  from  Paris  to  Aries  are  87  francs,  first  class ;  58 
francs  75  centimes,  second  class ;  and  38  francs  SO  cen- 
times, third  class ;  and  from  Paris  to  Marseilles,  96  francs 
55  centimes,  65  francs  15  centimes,  and  42  francs  50 
centimes  respectively.  In  addition,  there  are  all  kinds 
of  extra  charges  for  passage  on  the  "  Calais-Nice- Venti- 
mille  Eapide  "  and  other  trains  de  luxe,  not  overlooking 
the  exorbitant  charge  of  something  like  70  francs  for  a 
sleeping-car  berth  from  Paris  to  Marseilles  —  and  always 
there  are  too  few  to  go  around  even  at  this  price. 

From  either  Aries  or  Marseilles  one  may  thread  the 


Appendices 


423 


No.  21  —  First  class,  29  fcs. ;    Second  class,  21  fcs.;  Third-class,  14  fcs. 
No.  22—  "  8  fcs.  50c.  "  6  fcs.  "  4  fcs.  50c 

No.  23—  "  17  fcs.  "  14  fcs.  50c.       "         10  fcs.  50c 


424  Appendices 


main  routes  of  Provence  by  many  branches  of  the  "  P. 
L.  M."  or  its  "  Chemins  Regionaux  du  Sud  de  Prance ; " 
can  penetrate  the  little-known  region  bordering  upon 
the  Etang  de  Berre  and  enter  the  Riviera  proper  either 
by  Marseilles  or  by  the  inland  route,  through  Aix-en- 
Provence,  Brignoles,  and  Draguignan,  coming  to  the 
coast  through  Grasse  to  Cannes  or  Nice. 

The  traveller  from  afar,  from  America,  or  England, 
or  from  Russia  or  Germany,  is  quite  as  well  catered  for 
as  the  Frenchman  who  would  enjoy  the  charms  of 
Provence  and  the  Riviera,  for  there  are  through  ex- 
press-trains from  Calais,  Boulogne,  Brussels,  Berlin, 
St.  Petersburg,  Vienna,  and  Genoa.  Now  that  the  tide 
of  travel  from  America  has  so  largely  turned  Mediter- 
raneanward,  the  south  of  France  bids  fair  to  become  as 
familiar  a  touring  ground  as  the  Switzerland  of  old,  — 
with  this  difference,  that  it  has  an  entrance  by  sea,  via 
Genoa  or  Marseilles. 

For  the  traveller  by  road  there  are  untold  charms 
which  he  who  goes  by  rail  knows  not  of.  The 
magnificent  roadways  of  France — the  "Routes  Na- 
tionals "  and  the  "  Routes  Departmentales "  —  are 
nowhere  kept  in  better  condition,  or  are  they  better 
planned  than  here.  East  and  west  and  across  country 
they  run  in  superb  alignment,  always  mounting  gently 
any  topographical  eminence  with  which  they  meet,  in 
a  way  which  makes  a  journey  by  road  through  Provence 
one  of  the  most  enjoyable  experiences  of  one's  life. 

The  diligence  has  pretty  generally  disappeared,  but 
an  occasional  stage-coach  may  be  found  connecting  two 
not  too  widely  separated  points,  and  inquiry  at  any 
stopping-place  will  generally  elicit  information  regard- 
ing a  two,  three,  or  six  hour  journey  which  will  prove  a 


Appendices  425 


considerable  novelty  to  the  traveller  who  usually  is  hur- 
ried through  a  lovely  country  by  rail. 

For  the  automobilist,  or  even  the  cyclist,  still  greater 
is  the  pleasure  of  travel  by  the  highroads  and  byroads 
of  this  lovely  country,  and  for  them  a  skeleton  itinerary 
has  been  included  among  the  appendices  of  this  book 
with  some  useful  elements  which  are  often  not  shown  by 
the  guide-books. 

The  "  Voitures  Publiques"  in  Provence,  as  elsewhere, 
leave  much  to  be  desired,  starting  often  at  inconven- 
iently early  or  late  hours  in  order  to  correspond  with 
the  postal  arrangements  of  the  government ;  but,  when- 
ever one  can  be  found  that  fits  in  with  the  time  at  one's 
disposal,  it  offers  an  opportunity  of  seeing  the  country 
at  a  price  far  below  that  of  the  voiture  particuliere. 
Here  and  there,  principally  in  the  mountainous  regions 
lying  back  from  the  coast,  the  "  Societies  and  Syndicats 
d' Initiative,"  which  are  springing  up  all  over  the  popu- 
lar tourist  regions  in  France,  have  inaugurated  services 
by  cars-alpins  and  char-a-bancs,  and  even  automobile 
omnibuses,    which    offer    considerably   more    comfort. 

Concerning  the  hotels  and  restaurants  of  Provence  and 
the  Riviera  much  could  be  said ;  but  this  is  no  place  for 
an  exhaustive  discussion. 

Generally  speaking,  the  fare  at  the  table  d'hote 
throughout  Provence  is  bountiful  and  excellent,  with 
perhaps  too  often,  and  too  strong,  a  trace  of  garlic,  and 
considerably  more  than  a  trace  of  olive-oil. 

At  Aix,  Aries,  Avignon,  and  Orange  one  gets  an  imi- 
tation of  a  Parisian  table  d'hote  at  all  of  the  leading 
hotels ;  but  in  the  small  towns,  Cavaillon,  Salon,  Mar- 
tigues,  Grimaud,  or  Vence,  one  is  nearer  the  soil  and 
meets  with  the  real  cuisine  du  pays,  which  the  writer 


426  Appendices 


assumes  is  one  of  the  things  for  which  one  leaves  the 
towns  behind. 

At  Marseilles,  and  all  the  great  Eiviera  resorts,  the 
cuisine  frangaise  is  just  about  what  the  same  thing  is  in 
San  Francisco,  New  York,  or  London,  —  no  better  or  no 
worse.  As  for  price,  the  modest  six  or  eight  francs  a 
day  in  the  hotels  of  the  small  towns  becomes  ten  francs 
in  cities  like  Aix  or  Aries,  and  from  fifteen  francs  to 
anything  you  like  to  pay  at  Marseilles,  Cannes,  Nice, 
or  Monte  Carlo. 

VI. 

THE  METEIC   SYSTEM 

METRICAL    AND   ENGLISH    WEIGHTS    AND    MEASURES 

Metre  =  39.3708  in.  =  3.231.     3  ft.  3  1-2  in.  =  1.0936  yard. 

Square  Metre  (metre  carre")  =  1  l-5th  square  yards  (1.196). 

Are  (or  100  sq.  metres)  =  119.6  square  yards. 

Cubic  Metre  (or  Stere)  =  35  1-2  cubic  feet. 

Centimetre  =  2-5ths  inch. 

Kilometre  =  1,093  yards  =  5-8  mile. 

10  Kilometres  =  6  1-4  miles. 

100  Kilometres  =  62  l-10th  miles. 

Square  Kilometre  =  2-5ths  square  mile. 

Hectare  =  2  1-2  acres  (2.471). 

100  Hectares  =  247. 1  acres. 

Gramme  =  15  1-2  grains  (15.432). 

10  Grammes  =  l-3d  oz.  Avoirdupois. 

15  Grammes  =  1-2  oz.  Avoirdupois. 

Kilogramme  =  2  l-5th  lbs.  (2.204)  Avoirdupois. 

10  Kilogrammes  =  22  lbs.  Avoirdupois. 

Metrical  Quintal  =  220  1-2  lbs.  Avoirdupois. 

Tonneau  =  2,200  lbs.  Avoirdupois. 

Litre  =  0.22  gal.  =  13-4  pint. 

Hectolitre  =  22  gallons. 


Appendices 


427 


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428  Appendices 


ENGLISH    AND    METRICAL   WEIGHTS    AND    MEASURES 

Inch  =  2.539  centimetres  =  25.39  millimetres. 

2  inches  =  5  centimetres  nearly. 

Foot  =  30.47  centimetres. 

Yard  =  0.9141  metre. 

12  yards  =  11  metres  nearly. 

Mile=  1.609  kilometre. 

Square  foot  =  0.093  metre  carre\ 

Square  yard  =  0.836  metre  carre\ 

Acre  =  0.4046  hectare  =  4,003  sq.  metres  nearly. 

2  1-2  acres  =  1  hectare  nearly. 

Pint  =  0.5679  litre. 

1  3-4  pint  =  1  litre  nearly. 
Gallon  =  4.5434  litres  =  4  nearly. 
Bushel  =  36.347  litres. 

Oz.  Troy  =  31.103  grammes. 

Pound  Troy  (5,760  grains)  =  373.121  grammes. 

Oz.  Avoirdupois  =  8.349  grammes. 

Pound  Avoirdupois  (7,000  grains)  =  453.592  grammes. 

2  lbs.  3  oz.  =  kilogramme  nearly. 
100  lbs.  =  45.359  kilogrammes. 
Cwt.  =  50.802  kilogrammes. 
Ton  =  1,018.048  kilogrammes. 


Appendices 


429 


VII. 


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INDEX  OF  PLACES 


Agay,  286-287,  288. 

Agde,  20. 

Aigues   Mortes,  28,  93. 

Aix,  5,  17,  18-19,  31,  101, 
156-160,  161,  165,  173,  215, 
250,  322,  412,  424,  425,  426, 
429. 

Allauch,   134. 

Antheore,  288-289. 

Antibes,  101,  305-306,  308- 
312,    330,    412,    429. 

Aries,  5,  6,  17,  22,  29,  30- 
38,  64,  73,  83,  99,  101, 
107,  no,  160,  268,  271,  276, 
346,  413,  422,  425,  426,  429. 

Aubagne,    18,    129,    167-168. 

Auriol,   163,  170. 

Avignon,  4-5,  10,  16,  17,  22, 
24,  25,  31,  56,  57,  73,  160, 
183,  413,  422,  425,  429. 

Baie   de   Cavalaire,   254-255. 
Baie  de  la  Ciotat,   184-185. 
Baie  de  Sanary,  202. 
Baie  des  Anges,  233,  309. 
Bandol,    189-194,   413. 
Beaucaire,  24,  25,  27,  28,  33, 

107. 
Beaudinard,   129. 
Beaulieu,   229,    233,   344,    352, 

353-  356,  358,   359,  413- 
Bee  de  lAigle,  177,  184-185. 
Bellegarde,  25,  27. 
Berre,  88,  92,  97-99,  120. 
Berteaux,  Chateau  de,  260. 
Biot,  312-314. 
Bormes,    249-253,   254,   255. 


Bouches-du-Rhone,  20,  56, 
85,  107,  109,  113,  115,  224, 
402. 

Boulouris,  286. 

Cagnes,  231,  324-326,  33°, 
414.  • 

Camargue,  The,  7,  38,  57"65> 
66,  107. 

Cannes,  18,  22,  212,  228,  229, 
231,  236,  237,  249,  255,  269, 
279,  283,  285,  287,  288,  290, 
292,  293,  296-302,  304,  305, 

314,  333,  336,  398,  414.  424. 

426,  429. 
Cap   Canaille,   180,   181 -182. 
Cap  Couronne,  113-116,  131. 
Cap  dAntibes,  308,  341. 
Cap  de  lAigle,   131. 
Cap  Ferrat,  233,  341,  349. 
Cap    Martin,    229,    233,    245, 

351,  358,  399-400,  403. 
Cap   Mouret,  211. 
Cap  Negre,  201. 
Cap     Notre     Dame     de     la 

Garde,    211. 
Cap  Roux,  293-294. 
Cap    Sepet,  211. 
Cap   Sicie,   200-201,  202,  206, 

211. 
Carnoles,   400. 
Carpentras,    16. 
Carry,    116-117. 
Cassis,    177-181,    183,   414. 
Cavaillon,  17,  45,  82,  83,  425. 
Cavalaire,    254-255. 
Ceyreste,  183-184. 


43i 


432 


Index  of  Places 


Chateau  Grignan,  12. 

Chateauneuf,   114. 

Cimiez,    344"347- 

Ciotat    (see    La    Ciotat). 

Cogolin,  260-264,  414. 

Condamine      (see     La     Con- 

damine). 
Cote  d'Azur,  72. 
Crau,    The,   6,   7,   24,   38,    57, 

58,  65-69,  74,  92,  93,  95. 
Cuers,  221,  222. 

Draguignan,    321. 

Elne,  20. 

Embiez    (see    lies    des    Em- 

biez). 
Estaque,   134. 
Esterel,   232. 
fitang    de    Berre,    6,    14,    24, 

63,    72-73,    78,    79,   85,    87- 

106,  109,  118,  120,  172,  424. 
fitang  de  Bolmon,  105. 
fitang   de    Caronte,   91,    113. 
fitang   de   l'Olivier,    92. 
Eze,    350,    35i,    353,    3S9-36i, 

363,  365. 

Feuillerins,    350. 
Fos-sur-Mer,   24,   73-74,    110- 

112. 
Freinet      (see      La      Garde- 

Freinet). 
Frejus,    221,    222,    248,    249, 

261,  270,  271-278,  279,  283, 

290,  292,  293,  322,  415,  429. 

Garavan,  404. 

Gardanne,  161,  162,  168. 

Giens,    243-244 

Golfe  de  Fos,  73,  107,  109. 

Golfe   de    Frejus,   271. 

Golfe   de   Giens,   239-240. 

Golfe    de    la    Napoule,    233, 

200,  293,  307,  309,  314. 
Golfe    des    Leques,    179. 
Golfe  de  Lyon,   107-109,   no, 

113,    144.  201,  245. 
Golfe  de  St.  Tropez,  256-261, 

264,  265,  269. 


Golfe    Jouan,     19,    302,    305, 

306,    307,   314. 
Gorges     d'Ollioules,     194-195, 

197,    198. 
Gourdon,   328. 
Grasse,     307,     319-323,     326, 

329,   415,    424. 
Grimaud,    261,    264-266,    269, 

425- 
Grotte  des  Fees,  55. 
Grotte  de  St.   Baume,  287. 

Hyeres,  191,  193,  197,  208, 
219,  230,  239,  240-243,  244- 
249,  261,  333,  402,  415,  429. 

If,  Chateau  d',   136,  137,  150- 

152,  243. 
He  de  Riou,  136. 
He    Pomegue,    136. 
He    Rattonneau,    136. 
lies   d'Hyeres    (see   Hyeres). 
lies   des   Embiez,  202-204. 
Istres,    88,    92-95. 
lies  de  Lerins,  309-318. 

Jouan-les-Pins,   305-307. 

La  Ciotat,  184-189,  414,  429. 
La  Condamine,  352,  390,  391. 
La  Crau    (see  Crau,  The). 
La  Croix,  255. 
La    Foux,   259-260,   261,   269, 

270. 
La    Garde-Freinet,    239,    266- 

269. 
Laghet,    361-362. 
La  Londe,  249. 
Lambesc,  24. 
La    Napoule,    233,    269,    283, 

288,  289,  290,  292. 
La   Revere,  350. 
La  Seyne,  207,  208,  213. 
La  Turbie.  233,  336,  351,  357- 

358,  361,  362-366,  367,  368. 
Le   Bar,  327-328. 
Le  Brusc,  203. 

Le  Cannet,  231,  297-298,  301. 
Le  Gibel,  181. 


Index  of  Places 


433 


Le  Lavandou,  255. 

Le  Luc,  221 

Les  Adrets,  294-296. 

Les  Aygalades,  134. 

Les   Baux,   17,  53-55,   i°3- 

Les    Leques,    189. 

Les     Martigues      (see     Mar- 

tigues). 
Les  Pennes,  160. 
Les    Sablettes,    207. 
Les    Saintes    Maries,    24,    60- 

63. 
Les   Sollies,  222. 
Le  Trayes,  288,  289. 
Lyons,  3,  7,    15,    16,   56,    193. 

255,  307,  335.  344,  38i. 

Marignane,  88,  92,  103-106. 

Marseilles,  5,  6,  13,  14,  15, 
16,  18,  20,  25,  27,  31-32, 
63,  72,  75,  82,  85,  86,  88, 
89,  91,  92,  99,  101,  103,  106, 

109,       HO,       113,       115,       Il6, 

117-155,  156,  157,  160,  161, 
162,  163,  165,  167,  168,  169, 
i/o,  173,  V7,  178,  179,  181, 

182,  183,  186,  187,  188,  191, 

193,  I94,  197,  200,  202,  212, 
215,    234,   246,   278,   309,   335. 

348,  373,  401,  402,  415,  422, 

424.     426,     429. 

Martigues,  15,  22,  70-72,  74- 
86,  87,  88,  92,  98,  104,  105, 
113,  115,  120,  160,  178,  402, 
416,   425,   429. 

Menton,  19,  191,  228,  229, 
230,  233,  235,  236,  237,  245, 
344,  351,  352,  358,  366,  368, 
391,  394,  398-404,  4i6,  429- 

Miramas,  88,  95. 

Monaco,  190,  227,  233,  284, 
344.  351,  364,  370,  379,  380, 
386-388,  390-393,  396-397, 
399,  400,  401,  429. 

Monte  Carlo,  21,  161,  183. 
191,  227,  229,  233-235,  244, 
259,  284,  305,  30S,  336,  337, 
344,  350,  351.  352.  358,  359, 
362,    363,    370-386,    388-391, 


393-397,   399,   401,  403,  416, 
426. 
Montmajour,    Abbey    of,    38- 
40. 

Nice,  18,  20,  21,  22,  191,  195, 
212,  221,  229,  231,  236,  237, 
245,  249,  254,  255,  259,  284, 
290,  309,  314,  321,  324,  326, 

332-344,    348-353,    356,    358, 
364,  381,  392,  398,  403,  417, 

424,  426,   429. 

Nimes,  5,  6,  22,  31,  73,  103, 
276. 

Ollioules,    194-198. 

Orange,    3-4,    5,    31,    35,   346, 

425,  429- 

Pas-de-Lanciers,  86. 

Passable,    233. 

Pays   dArles,   24-41. 

Pays    de    Cavaillon,   24. 

Perpignan,   20. 

Pignans,   221. 

Pont  du  Gard,  27,  103. 

Pont    Flavien,   96. 

Pont    St.    Louis,    404-406. 

Porquerolles,    240-243. 

Port  de  Bouc,  73-74,  112-113, 

178. 
Port   Miou,    182-183. 
Port  St.  Louis,  63-65,   121. 
Pradet,  239. 
Presqu'ile  de  Giens,  240,  243- 

244. 
Puget-Ville,  221. 

Roquebrune,     19,     351,     358, 

363,    366-369,    391,    400. 
Roquefavour,     102-103. 
Roquevaire,    129,    165-167. 

Sabran,   Chateau   de,   204. 
Sainte  Baume,   169-173,  294. 
Salon,   99-102,    105,    158,  417, 
425- 


434 


Index  of  Places 


Sanary   (see   St.   Nazaire-du- 

Var). 
Seon- Saint- Andre,    135. 
Septemes,   161-162. 
Simiane,    161. 
Six-Fours,   200,    204-207. 
Sollies-Pont,      221,      222-225, 

246,   417. 
St.  Chamas,  88,  92,  95"97- 
Ste.   Croix,   Chapelle,  40-41. 
Ste.   Maxime,  269-270,  271. 
St.    Gilles,    17,   34. 
St.    Jean-sur-Mer,    233,    356- 

357. 
St.  Julien,   135. 
St.  Mitre,  24,  88. 
St.    Nazaire-du-Var,    198-200, 

202. 
St.    Pierre,    113-115. 
St.    Raphael,    232,    256,    271, 

278-281,  283,  285,  286,  288, 

290,   417,   429. 
St.  Remy,  5,  42-53,  100,  418, 

429. 


St.  Tropez,  18,  228,  254,  256- 

259,  261,  269,  417,  429. 
St.   Zacharie,    170. 

Tamaris,  207,  208-210. 

Tarascon,  24,  25,  26,  27,  429. 

Theoule,  289-290. 

Toulon,  18,  19,  194-195,  202, 
204,  207,  208,  211-221,  222, 
226,  235,  239,  242,  243,  246, 
270,  3",  336,  349,  4i8,  429. 

Valence,  3,   12. 
Valesclure,    281. 
Vallauris,   302-304,   310. 
Vaucluse,  24,  25,  43,   101. 
Vence,  326,  345,  425. 
Ventabren,    102-103. 
Vienne,  5. 
Villefranche,    233,    311,    353- 

356,   358. 
Villeneuve-Loubet,   323-324. 
Vintimille,  351,  400. 


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